DM? 


FROM -THE -LIBRARY- OF' 
A.  W.   Ryder 


RIPPLING  RHYMES 


WALT'S  KIND  OF  POETRY 


TKe  facetious,  capricious,  delicious  poems  of 
Walt  Mason. 

-—James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

Walt  Mason  is  the  voice  of  the  people. 

—William  Allen  While. 

Walt  Mason  is  delightful — true  humor  is  so  rare 
a  commodity. 

— Sir  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

I  began  to  read,  skeptically  at  first,  but  more 
and  more  persuaded,  and  at  last  could  not  break 
away  from  those  fascinating  rhymes  masking  as 
prose,  in  a  carnival  concourse  of  pathos,  and  fun, 
and  satire,  and  aspiration,  but.  above  all,  sense, 
sense,  sense. 

—William  Dean  Howclls. 

Walt  Mason  is  the  high  priest  of  horse  sense. 

— George  Ads. 

I  have  Walt  Mason  and  coffee  every  morning, 
and  one  is  as  necessary  as  the  other,  but  Walt 
doesn't  give  me  heartburn,  and  coffee  docs. 

— Mary  Roberts  Rinehari. 

Walt  Mason's  little  sermonettes  in  rhyme  are 
gospels,  and  they  are  going  about  doing  good. 

— Robert  J.  Burdette. 

Walt  Mason  has  entertained  me  on  many  a 
dreary  railway  journey. 

—Theodore  Dreiser. 

Walt  Mason  is  a  better  tonic  than  anything 
that  ever  was  bottled 

— Elberl  Huttard. 


Ttc  Umpire 


( P.*e  63 


PIBPLING  PHYMES 

To  Suit  The  Times 
All  Sorts  of  Themes 


Some  G&y 

Some  S^A 

•Some  not  so  Bad 

AS 
•WWITEN  BY 


Chicago 

A.C.MS CLURG  &  CO. 
1914 


CopyrigLt 
A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 

1913 


PutlisKed  October,  1913 


Copyrighted  in  Great  Britain 

For  permission  to  use  copyright  prose  poems  in 
tins  book  thanks  are  extended  to  the  editors  and 
publishers  of  Harper's  Magazine,  Harper's  Weekly, 
The  Ladies'  Home  Journal.  System,  The  Magazine 
of  Business,  The  Popular  Magazine,  Collier's 
Weekly,  The  Smart  Set  ^(agazifae'  The  American 
Magazine  and  'Li ^pincott's  'Magazine. 


r        &il*1fc>A':s..*#  ••' 

V  tf —  *~^     *\Wr*         W»\o-v  c ,  "v  v< 


UA 


To 
GEORGE  MATTHEW  ADAMS 

Who  teaches  poeta  how  to  win. 

And   helps   to    make   the   glad    world    grin, 

And  sticks  to  friends  through  thick  and  thin. 


ONE  MOMENT,  PLEASE! 

WALT  MASON'S  poetry  is  m  a  class 
by  itself.  Although  Laving  the  ap 
pearance  of  prose  the  rhythm  is  per 
fect  and  the  philosophy  that  runs  through 
his  lines  is  illumined  by  an  irresistible 
Humor.  There  is  a  quaintness  about  his 
style  that  makes  his  writings  a  continuing 
delight. 

I  began  to  read  Walt  twenty-five  years 
ago  and  although  he  has  drawn  upon  his 
intellectual  store  constantly  for  more  than 
a  quarter  of  a  century  the  fountain  of  his 
genius  still  is  flowing  with  undimimshed 
volume  and  the  waters  are  as  pure  as  in 
the  idealistic  days  of  his  youth. 

I  have  shared  the  satisfaction  that  his 
increasing  fame  has  brought  him  and  have 
encouraged  him  to  publish  this  collection 
that  his  readers,  now  numbering  people 
of  many  lands,  may  have  permanent 
companionship  with  him. 


L_ 

Tiiir-i      --.  i.-i — 


CONTENTS 

Title                                                 First  Published  in  Page 

Morning  in  Kansas 1  • 

Editorial  Influence Newspaper  dom 3 

Farm  Machinery 5 

The  Strong  Men Popular  Magazine 8 

The  Snowy  Day 10 

Tne  Poor  Man's  dub .  . .  .Collier's  Weekly 11 

Words  and  Deeds 13 

A  Day  of  Rest 15 

Use  Your  Head The  Butler  Way 16 

The  Gloomy  Fan 18 

The  Purist Lippincott's  Magazine..  21 

Qualifications System  Magazine 23 

The  Pompous  Man 25 

Inefficient  Men Popular  Magazine 26 

Life's  Injustice 28 

The  Politician 31 

Random  Shots 32 

Look  Pleasant,  Please.  .  .Ladies  Home  Journal .  .  33 

Courage Harper's  Weekly 35 

Play  Ball 38 

The  Old  Songs 39 

Guessing  vs.  Knowing .  .  .  System  Magazine 41 

When  Women  Vote Ladies  Home  Journal.  .  43 


Title                                                 First  Published  in  Page 

TKe  Agent  at  tKe  Door 45 

Good  and  Bad  Times ....  System  Magazine 47 

Buccaneers Popular  Magazine 51 

St.  Patrick's  Day 53 

Naming  tKe  Baby Harper's  Weekly 54 

Won  at  Last Smart  Set  Magazine  ...  56 

The  Greatest  Thing 61 

TKe  Umpire Popular  Magazine 63 

TKe  Two  Merchants System  Magazine 66 

Today's  M«tto 68 

Some  Protests 69 

TKe  Workers Collier's  Weekly 71 

TKe  Utilitarian Harper's  Weekly 73 

Fireside  Adventures Popular  Magazine 76 

Hunting  a  Job 79 

Old  and  New 81 

TKe  Handy  Editor Newspaper dom 82 

TKe  Sleeper  Wakes 84 

In  Horseland 89 

Inauguration  Day,  1913. .  .  Collier's  Weekly 90 

Prayer  of  tKe  HeatKen 93 

TKeory  and  Practice Smart  Set  Magazine  ...  96 

Fool  and  Sage 98 

TKen  and  Now Smart  Set  Magazine  ...  99 

TKe  Sleeper 101 

Fooling  Around The  Butler  Way 102 


Till*                                             Firri  Published  in  Pag* 

Guess  Who 104 

Trying  Again Smart  Set  Magazine ....  105 

Iconoclasm Harper's  Magazine.  .  .  .  107 

Gathering  Roses 110 

The  Future  Sport Ill 

Taking  Advice 112 

Post-Mortem  Industry.  .  .Smart  Set  Magazine  ...  114 

Tne  Conqueror 116 

Tne  Truthful  Merchant. .  .System  Magazine 120 

Standing  Pat Collier's  Magazine 122 

The  Outcast 124 

Ode  to  Kansas 42& 

Domestic  Happiness Smart  Set  Magazine. . . .  126 

Celebrities Popular  Magazine 128 

The  Virtuous  Editor Collier's  Weekly 130 

This  Dismal  Age Popular  Magazine 132 

Boost  Things 134 

The  Adventurer Popular  Magazine  ....  135 

They  All  Come  Back 137 

Home  Builders 138 

Failure  and  Success 140 

The  Open  Road Popular  Magazine  ....  143 

The  Millionaires 146 

Little  Mistakes System  Magazine 147 

Easy  Morality 150 

The  Critic Harper's  Weekly 151 


Title  Firtt  Published  in  Page 

The  Old  Timer Popular  Magazine 154 

The  Bright  Face The  Butler  Way 158 

Ladies  and  Gents 160 

Autumn  Joys 161 

The  Land  of  Bores Smart  Set  Magazine 162 

Skilled  Labor 164 

An  Editorial  Soliloquy ....  Newspaperdom 165 

Youthful  Grievances 167 

Sunday 169 

John  Barleycorn Colliers  Weekly 170 

Christmas  Day Popular  Magazine 172 

A  Crank's  Thanksgiving. .  .American  Magazine .  .  .  174 

The  Brief  Visit..  .  176 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 

The  Umpire Frontispiece 

The  Gloomy  Fan 19 

The  Buccaneers 50 

The  Sleeper  Wakes 85 

The   Conqueror 117 

The  Old  Timer. .  .    155 


MORNING  IN  KANSAS 


are  lands  beyond  the 
ocean  which  are  gray  beneath 
their  years,  where  a  hundred  gener 
ations  learned  to  sow  and  reap  and 
spin;  where  the  sons  of  Shem  and 
Japhet  wet  the  furrow  with  their 
tears  —  and  the  noontide  is  depart 
ed,  and  the  night  is  closing  in. 

Long  ago  the  shadows  lengthened 
in  the  lands  across  the  sea,  and  the 
dusk  is  now  enshrouding  regions 
nearer  home,  alas!  There  are  long 
deserted  homesteads  in  this  country 
of  the  free  —  but  it's  morning  here  in 
Kansas,  and  the  dew  is  on  the  grass. 

It  is  morning  here  in  Kansas,  and 
the  breakfast  bell  is  rung!  We  are 
not  yet  fairly  started  on  the  work  we 
mean  to  do  ;  we  have  all  the  day  be 
fore  us,  for  the  morning  is  but  young, 
and  there's  hope  in  every  zephyr, 
and  the  skies  are  bright  and  blue. 

It  is  morning  here  in  Kansas,  and 
the  dew  is  on  the  sod  ;  as  the  build- 


ers  of  an  empire  it  is  ours  to  do  our 
best ;  with  our  hands  at  work  in  Kan 
sas,  and  our  faith  and  trust  in  God, 
we  shall  not  be  counted  idle  when 
the  sun  sinks  in  the  West. 


EDITORIAL  INFLUENCE 

IT  is  a  solemn  tiling,  to  think  when 
*  you  sit  down  to  splatter  ink,  that 
what  you  write,  in  prose  or  verse, 
may  be  a  blessing  or  a  curse.  The 
gems  of  thought  that  you  impart 
may  upward  guide  some  mind  and 
heart;  some  youth  may  read  your 
Smoking  Stuff,  and  say:  "That 
logic's  good  enough;  the  path  of  vir 
tue  must  be  fine ;  I'll  have  no  wick 
edness  in  mine/'  And  some  day, 
when  you're  old  and  gray,  that  youth 
may  come  along  your  way,  and  say, 
in  language  ringing  true :  "All  that 
I've  won  I  owe  to  you!  When  I  was 
young  I  read  your  rot;  it  hit  a  most 
responsive  spot,  encouraged  me  for 
stress  and  strife,  and  made  me 
choose  the  best  in  life/*  And  this 
will  warm  your  heart  and  brain ; 
you'll  know  you  have  not  lived  in 
vain.  But  if  you  write  disgusting 
dope,  that  thrusts  at  Truth,  and 
Faith  and  Hope ;  if  you  apologize  for 
vice,  and  show  that  wickedness  is 


nice,  it  well  may  chance,  wlien  you 
are  old,  and  in  your  veins  the  blood 
runs  cold,  there'll  come  your  way 
some  dismal  wreck,  who'll  roast  you 
sore,  and  cry:  "By  heck!  And  also 
I  might  say,  ty  gum!  'Twas  you 
that  put  me  on  the  bum!  Your 
writings  got  me  headed  wrong;  you 
threw  it  into  Virtue  strong;  and  in 
the  prison  that  you  see,  Fm  convict 

No.  23!" 


FARM  MACHINERY 

VV7E  Kave  things  with  cogs  and 
"  pulleys  that  will  stack  and 
bale  the  hay,  we  Lave  scarecrows 
automatic  that  will  drive  the  crows 
away;  we  have  riding  cultivators,  so 
we  may  recline  at  ease,  as  we  travel 
up  the  corn  rows,  to  the  tune  of 

kkt  «9  1         kk  <*  | 

haws  and  gees  ;  we  have  en 
gines  pumping  water,  running  churns 
and  grinding  corn,  and  one  farmer 
that  I  know  of  has  a  big  steam  din 
ner  horn ;  all  of  which  is  very  pleas 
ant  to  reflect  upon,  I  think,  but  we 
need  a  good  contrivance  that  will 
teach  the  calves  to  drink. 

Now,  as  in  the  days  of  Noah,  man 
must  take  a  massive  pail,  loaded  up 
with  milk  denatured,  with  a  dash  of 
Adam's  ale,  and  go  down  among  the 
calfkins  as  the  lion  tamer  goes 
'mong  the  monarchs  of  the  jungle, 
at  the  famous  three-ring  shows ;  and 
the  calves  are  fierce  and  hungry, 
and  they  haven't  sense  to  wait,  till 
he  gets  a  good  position  and  has  got 


his  tucket  straight;  and  they  act  as 
though  they  hadn't  e'en  a  glimmer 
ing  of  sense,  for  they  climb  upon  his 
shoulders  ere  he  is  inside  the  fence, 
and  they  butt  him  in  the  stomach, 
and  they  kick  him  everywhere,  till 
he  thinks  he'd  give  a  nickel  for  a 
decent  chance  to  swear;  then  they 
all  get  underneath  him  and  capsize 
him  in  the  mud,  and  the  milk  runs 
down  his  whiskers  and  his  garments 
in  a  flood,  and  you  really  ought  to  see 
him  when  he  goes  back  to  his  home 
quoting  divers  pagan  authors  and  the 
bards  of  ancient  Rome.  And  he 
murmurs  -while  he's  washing  mud 
off  at  the  kitchen  sink :  "What  we 
need  is  a  contraption  that  will  teach 
the  calves  to  drink!" 

WeVe  machinery  for  planting, 
we've  machines  to  reap  and  thrash, 
and  the  housewife  has  an  engine  that 
will  grind  up  meat  for  hash;  we've 
machines  to  do  our  washing  and  to 
wring  the  laundered  duds,  we've 
machines  for  making  cider  and  to 
dig  the  Burbank  spuds ;  all  about 


the  modern  farmstead  you  may  hear 
the  levers  clink,  but  we're  shy  of  a 
contrivance  that  will  teach  the  calves 
to  drink ! 


THE  STRONG  MEN 

DEHOLD  the  man  of  muscle,  who 
*^  -wears  the  victor's  crown!  In 
gorgeous  scrap  and  tussle  lie  pinned 
tke  others  down.  His  brawn  stands 
out  in  hummocks,  he  like  a  lion 
treads ;  he  sits  on  foemen's  stomachs 
and  stands  them  on  their  heads. 
The  strong  men  of  all  regions,  the 
mighty  men  of  note,  come  here  in 
beefy  legions  to  try  to  get  his  goat; 
with  cordial  smiles  he  greets  them, 
and  when  we've  raised  a  pot,  upon 
the  mat  he  meets  them  and  ties 
them  in  a  knot.  From  Russia's 
frozen  acres,  from  Grecian  ports 
they  sail,  and  Turkey  sends  her 
fakers  to  gather  in  the  kale;  old 
brooding  Europe  breeds  them,  these 
mighty  men  of  brawn;  our  Strong 
Man  takes  and  kneads  them,  and 
puts  their  hopes  in  pawn. 

Behold  this  puny  fellow,  this  meek 
and  humble  chap!  No  doubt  he'd 
show  up  yellow  if  he  got  in  a  scrap. 
His  face  is  pale  and  sickly,  he's 


weak  of  arm  and  knee;  if  trouble 
came  he'd  quickly  skin  up  the  near 
est  tree.  No  hale  man  ever  loves 
Kim ;  he  stirs  the  sportsman's  wrath ; 
the  whole  world  kicks  and  shoves 
him  and  shoos  him  from  the  path. 
For  who  can  love  a  duffer  so  pallid, 
weak  and  thin,  who  seems  resigned 
to  suffer  and  let  folks  rub  it  in?  Yet 
though  he's  down  to  zero  in  fellow- 
men's  esteem,  this  fellow  is  a  hero 
and  that's  no  winter  dream.  Year 
after  year  he's  toiling,  as  toiled  the 
slaves  of  Rome,  to  keep  the  pot  a- 
boiling  in  his  old  mother's  home. 
Through  years  of  gloom  and  sickness 
he  kept  the  wolf  away;  for  him  no 
tailored  slickness,  for  him  no  brave 
array;  for  him  no  cheerful  vision  of 
wife  and  kids  a  few;  for  him  no 
dreams  Elysian — just  toil,  the  long 
years  through !  Forever  trying,  strain 
ing,  to  sidestep  debtors'  woes,  un 
noticed,  uncomplaining,  the  little 
Strong  Man  goes ! 


THE  SNOWY  DAY 

I  LIKE  to  watch  the  children  play, 
*  upon  a  wintry,  snowy  day ;  like 
little  elves  they  run  about,  and  leap 
and  slide,  and  laugh  and  shout. 
This  side  of  heaven  can  there  be 
such  pure  and  unmixed  ecstacy? 
I  lean  upon  ye  rustic  stile,  and 
watch  the  children  with  a  smile,  and 
think  upon  a  vanished  day,  when  I, 
as  joyous,  used  to  play,  when  all  the 
world  seemed  young  and  bright,  and 
every  hour  had  its  delight;  and,  as 
I  brush  away  a  tear,  a  snowball  hits 
me  in  the  ear. 


10 


THE  POOR  MAN'S  CLUB 

PHE  poor  man's  club  is  a  genial 
•*•  place — if  the  poor  man  has  the 
price ;  there's  a  balmy  smile  on 
the  barkeep's  face,  and  bottles  of 
goods  on  ice ;  the  poor  man's  club  is 
a  place  designed  to  brighten  our 
darkened  lives,  and  send  us  home, 
when  we're  halfway  blind,  in  humor 
to  beat  our  wives.  So  hey  for  the 
wicker  demi-john  and  the  free- 
lunch  brand  of  grub!  We'll  wassail 
hold  till  the  break  of  dawn,  we 
friends  of  the  poor  man's  club !  It's 
here  we  barter  our  bits  of  news  in 
our  sweat  stained  hand-me-downs ; 
it's  here  we  swallow  the  children's 
shoes  and  the  housewives'  hats  and 
gowns.  It's  here  we  mortgage  the 
house  and  lot,  the  horse  and  the 
muley  cow ;  the  poor  man's  club  is  a 
cheerful  spot,  so  open  a  bottle  now ! 
From  brimming  glasses  we'll  blow 
the  foam  till  the  midnight  hour 
arrives,  when  we'll  gayly  journey  the 
long  way  home  and  merrily  beat  our 


11 


wives.  We  earn  our  climes  like  the 
horse  or  ox,  we  toil  like  the  fabled 
steer,  and  then  we  journey  a  dozen 
blocks  to  blow  in  the  dimes  for  beer. 
While  the  women  work  at  the  wash 
ing  tub  to  add  to  our  scanty  hoard, 
we  happily  meet  at  the  poor  man's 
club,  where  never  a  soul  is  bored. 
We  recklessly  squander  our  minted 
brawn,  and  the  clubhouse  owner 
thrives;  and  well  homeward  go  at 
the  break  of  dawn  and  joyously 
beat  our  wives. 


v/ 


WORDS  AND  DEEDS 

AFIRE  broke  out  in  Bildad's 
shack  and  burned  it  to  the 
ground;  and  Bildad,  with  his  roof 
less  pack,  sent  up  a  doleful  sound. 
And  I,  who  lived  the  next  door  west, 
hard  by  the  county  jail,  went  over 
there  and  beat  my  breast,  and 
helped  poor  Bildad  wail.  Around 
the  ruined  home  I  stepped,  and 
viewed  the  shaking  walls,  and  people 
say  the  way  I  wept  would  beat 
Niagara  Falls.  Then  words  of  sym 
pathy  I  dealt  to  Bildad  and  his  wife ; 
such  kindly  words,  I've  always  felt, 
nerve  people  for  the  strife.  If  I 
can  kill  with  words  your  fears,  or 
argue  grief  away,  or  drown  your 
woe  by  shedding  tears,  call  on  me 
any  day.  I  have  a  sympathetic 
heart  that  bleeds  for  others'  aches, 
and  I  will  ease  your  pain  and  smart 
unless  the  language  breaks.  And 
so  to  Bildad  and  his  mate  I  made  a 
helpful  talk,  with  vital  truths  that 
elevate  and  break  disasters'  shock; 


I  pointed  out  tliat  stricken  men 
should  not  yield  to  the  worst,  but 
from  the  -wreckage  rise  again  like 
flame  from  torch  reversed. 

Then  Johnson  interrupted  me  as 
I  was  growing  hoarse.  A  rude, 
offensive  person  he,  a  tactless  man 
and  coarse. 

He  said  to  Bildad,  "Well,  old 
pard !  You  are  turned  out  I  see ! 
You  can't  keep  house  here  in  your 
yard,  so  come  and  live  with  me!" 

The  neighbors  who  had  gathered 
round  applauded  Johnson  then, 
declaring  that  at  last  they'd  found 
the  kindliest  of  men ;  not  one  ap 
preciative  voice  for  me,  who  fur 
nished  tears,  who  made  the  sad 
man's  heart  rejoice,  and  drove  way 
his  fears! 


14 


A  DAY  OF  REST 

I'M  glad  tliere  is  a  day  of  rest,  one 
*  day  in  every  seven,  when  worldly 
cares  cannot  molest,  and  we  may 
dream  of  heaven.  The  week  day 
labor  that  we  do,  is  highly  neces 
sary,  but  if  our  tasks  were  never 
through,  if  they  should  never  vary, 
we'd  soon  be  covered  o'er  with 
mold,  from  bridle-bits  to  breeching; 
so  let  the  Sabbath  bells  be  tolled, 
and  let  us  hear  the  preaching! 


15 


USE  YOUR  HEAD 

Fa  man  would  be  a  winner,  whether 
he's  a  clerk  or  tinner,  whether 
he's  a  butcher,  banker,  or  a  dealer 
in  rye  bread,  he  must  show  his  brains 
are  bully,  he  must  undertsand  it 
fully  that  a  man  can't  be  an  Eli  if  he 
doesn't  use  his  head. 

There  was  old  man  Hiram  Horner, 
once  located  on  the  corner,  where  he 
sold  his  prunes  and  codfish  and  dried 
apples  by  the  pound ;  he  was  always 
mighty  busy;  it  would  fairly  make 
you  dizzy  just  to  watch  old  Uncle 
Hiram  as  he  chased  himself  around. 
He  got  down  when  day  was  breaking, 
always  ready  to  be  raking  in  the  pen 
nies  of  the  people  if  they  chanced  to 
come  that  way;  he  was  evermore  on 
duty  till  the  midnight  whistles,  tooty, 
sent  him  home,  where  he'd  be  fus 
sing  to  begin  another  day.  Yet  old 
Hi  tarn  soon  was  busted,  and  you'll 
see  him  now,  disgusted,  whacking 
mules  in  worthy  effort  to  attain  his 
daily  bread ;  he  was  diligent,  de- 


16 


serving,  from  good  morals  never 
swerving  tut  he  lost  his  grip  in  busi 
ness  for  he  didn't  use  nis  head.  He 
was  always  overloaded  with  a  lot  of 
junk  corroded,  he  was  always  short 
of  goodlets  that  the  people  seem  to 
need ;  he  would  trust  the  dead  beat 
faker  till  he'd  bad  bills  by  the  acre, 
and  he's  now  at  daily  labor,  with  his 
whiskers  gone  to  seed. 

There  is  Theodore  P.  Tally  in  his 
store  across  the  alley ;  you  will  see  he 
takes  it  easy,  not  a  button  does  he 
shed ;  you  can  hear  the  wheels  re 
volving  in  his  brow  while  he's  resol 
ving  to  get  rich  by  drawing  largely 
on  the  contents  of  his  head. 

It  is  well  to  use  your  fingers  blithe 
ly  while  the  daylight  lingers,  it  is  well 
to  use  your  trilbys  with  a  firm  and 
active  tread  ;  it  is  good  to  rustle  daily, 
doing  all  your  duties  gaily,  but  in  all 
your  divers  doings,  never  fail  to  use 
your  head. 


17 


THE  GLOOMY  FAN 

OTHE  gloomy  fan  is  a  mournful 
man,  and  he  nils  my  soul  witK 
sorrow;  he  watched  the  play  with  a 
frown  today,  and  he'll  scowl  at  the 
game  tomorrow.  He  ambles  in 
when  the  games  begin,  a  soul  by 
the  gods  forgotten;  and  he  eyes  the 
play  in  his  morbid  way,  and  he  yells 
out  "punk!"  and  "rotten!"  No 
player  yet,  be  he  colt  or  vet,  won 
praise  from  this  critic  gloomy;  hell 
sit  and  scowl  like  a  poisoned  owl, 
and  his  eyes  are  red  and  rheumy; 
and  his  blood  is  thin  and  his  heart 
is  tin,  and  his  head  is  stuffed  with 
cotton ;  and  he  merely  sits,  throwing 
frequent  fits,  and  he  calls  out  "punk  !" 
and  "rotten!"  He  casts  a  pall  on 
the  bleachers  all,  and  he  breaks  the 
hearts  of  players ;  he  gives  the  dumps 
to  his  nibs  the  umps,  who  would 
spread  him  out  in  layers ;  he  queers 
the  game  and  he  chills  the  frame  of 
the  man  on  the  bases  trottin\  with 
his  fish-like  eyes  and  his  mournful 
sighs,  and  his  cries  of  "punk!"  and 
"rotten  I 


;^  ,:  •  , 

*    f;      'j)M?) 


C^=-~-«£-l«<?0« 


ILe   Gloomy  Fan 


THE  PURIST 
VV7ILLIAM    HENRY",    said 

*  *  parent,  and  his  voice  was  saot 
and  stern,  "I  detest  the  slang  you're 
using;  will  you  never,  never  learn 
that  correct  use  of  our  language  is  a 
thing  to  be  desired?  All  your  com 
mon  bughouse  phrases  make  the 
shrinking  highbrow  tired.  There  is 
nothing  more  delightful  than  a  pure 
and  careful  speech,  and  the  man 
who  weighs  his  phrases  always 
stacks  up  as  a  peach,  while  the  guy 
who  shoots  his  larynx  in  a  careless 
slipshod  way  looms  up  as  a  selling 
plater,  people  brand  him  for  a  jay. 
In  my  youth  my  father  soaked  me  if 
I  entered  his  shebang  handing  out  a 
line  of  language  that  he  recognized 
as  slang.  He  would  take  me  to  the 
cellar,  down  among  the  mice  and 
rats,  and  with  nice  long  sticks  of 
stove  wood  he'd  play  solos  on  my 
slats.  Thus  I  gained  a  deep  devo 
tion  for  our  language  undenled,  and 
it  drives  me  nearly  batty  when  I 


21 


hear  my  only  child  springing  wads 
of  hard  boiled  language  such  as  dips 
and  yeggmen  use,  and  I  want  a  ref 
ormation  or  1 11  stroke  you  "with  my 
shoes.  Using  slang  is  just  a  habit, 
just  a  cheap  and  dopey  trick;  if  you 
hump  yourself  and  try  to,  you  can 
shake  it  pretty  quick.  Watch  my 
curves  and  imitate  them,  weigh 
your  words  before  they're  sprung, 
and  in  age  you'll  bless  the  habit 
that  you  formed  when  you  were 
young." 


QUALIFICATIONS 

|  WENT  around  to  Thompson's 
*  store  and  asked  him  if  he'd  give 
me  \vork — for  Thompson,  in  the 
Daily  Roar,  was  advertising  for  a 
clerk.  He  looked  me  over  long  and 
well,  and  then  enquired :  "What 
can  you  do?  Do  you  in  anything  ex 
cel?  If  youVe  strong  points,  just 
name  a  few/'  His  manner  dashed 
my  sunny  smile,  I  seemed  to  feel  my 
courage  fall ;  I  had  to  ponder  for  a 
while  my  strongest  features  to  recall. 

"Well,  I  a  motor  boat  can  sail,  and 
I  a  4-horse  team  can  tool ;  and  I  can 
tell  a  funny  tale  and  play  a  splendid 
game  of  pool.  I'm  good  at  going  into 
debt  and  counting  chicks  before  they 
hatch,  and  I  can  roll  a  cigarette  or 
referee  a  wrestling  match." 

There  was  a  time,  the  merchant 
said,  "when  qualities  like  those  were 
fine;  alas,  those  good  old  days  are 
dead !  The  mixer's  fallen  out  of 
line !  The  business  houses  turn  him 


down,  and  customers  no  longer  sigh 
for  one  to  show  them  through  the 
town,  and  open  pints  of  Extra  Dry! 
The  salesman  of  these  modern  days 
must  study  things  he  -wants  to  sell, 
instead  of  haunting  Great  White 
Ways  and  painting  cities  wildly  well. 
He  must  be  sober  as  a  judge,  he 
must  be  genial  and  polite,  from  vir 
tue's  path  hell  never  budge,  he'll 
keep  his  record  snowy  white.  Into 
the  world  of  commerce  go  and  mark 
the  ways  of  business  men ;  forget  the 
list  of  things  you  know  and  then 
come  here  and  try  again/' 

In  his  remarks  there  was  no  bile; 
with  sympathy  he  gently  laughed, 
and  dropped  me,  with  a  kindly  smile, 
adown  the  elevator  shaft. 


24 


THE  POMPOUS  MAN 

T  DO  not  like  the  pompous  man ;  I 
*  do  not  wish  Kim  for  a  friend ;  he's 
built  on  such  a  gorgeous  plan,  that 
he  can  only  condescend ;  and  when 
he  bows  his  neck  is  sprained ;  he 
walks  as  though  he  owned  the  earth 
— as  though  his  vest  and  shirt  con 
tained  all  that  there  is  of  Sterling 
Worth.  With  sacred  joy  I  see  him 
tread,  upon  a  stray  banana  rind,  and 
slide  a  furlong  on  his  head  and  leave 
a  trail  of  smoke  behind. 


25 


INEFFICIENT  MEN 


ALFRED,  in  a  rude  dis- 
guise,  was  resting  in  the  cow- 
nerd's  cot;  the  cowherd's  wife  was 
baking  pies,  and  had  her  oven  smok 
ing  hot. 

"You  watch  these  pies/'  exclaimed 
the  frau;  "I  have  to  chase  myself 
outdoors,  and  see  what  ails  the  spot 

ted  cow,  the  way  she  tawls  around 

d" 
roars. 

King  Alfred  said  he'd  watch  the 
pies;  then  started  thinking  of  the 
Danes,  who  fooled  him  with  their 
tricks  and  lies,  and  put  his  bleeding 
realm  in  chains.  He  studied  plans 
to  gam  his  own,  fair  visions  rose 
before  his  eyes  ;  he'd  hew  a  pathway 
to  his  throne  —  and  he  forgot  the 
matron  s  pies.  And  then  the  cow 
herd's  wife  came  in  ;  she  smelled  the 
smoke,  she  gave  a  shout;  she  biffed 
him  with  the  rolling  pin,  and  cried  : 
"Ods  fish,  you  useless  lout!  You 
are  not  worth  the  dynamite  'twould 
take  to  blow  you  off  the  map  !  Your 


Lead  is  not  upholstered   right — you 
are  a  worthless  trifling  chap !' 

When  on  his  throne  King  Alfred 
sat,  that  woman  had  an  inward 
ache ;  she  chewed  the  feathers  from 
her  hat  because  she'd  made  so  Dad  a 
break. 

It  isn't  safe,  my  friends,  to  say 
that  any  man's  a  failure  flat  because 
he  cannot  shovel  hay,  or  climb  a 
tree,  or  skin  a  cat.  The  man  who's 
awkward  with  a  saw,  who  cannot 
hammer  in  a  nail,  may  in  the  future 
practice  law  and  fill  his  bins  with 
shining  kale.  The  ne'er-do-well  who 
cannot  cook  the  luscious  egg  his  hen 
has  laid,  may  yet  sit  down  and  write 
a  book  that  makes  the  big  best 
sellers  fade.  The  man  who  blacks 
your  boots  today,  and  envies  you 
your  rich  cigar,  next  year  may  have 
the  right  of  way  while  touring  in  his 
private  car. 

It  isn't  safe  at  men  to  jeer  how 
ever  awkwardly  they  tread ;  they 
yet  may  find  their  proper  sphere — 
no  man's  a  failure  till  he's  dead. 


27 


LIFE'S  INJUSTICE 

learned  man  labors  in  his 
lair,  and  trains  his  telescope 
across  a  million  leagues  of  air, 
among  the  stars  to  grope.  He  would 
increase  the  little  store  of  knowledge 
we  possess,  and  so  lie  toils  forever 
more,  and  often  in  distress.  His 
whiskers  and  his  hair  are  long,  and 
in  the  zephyrs  wave,  because — alas ! 
such  things  are  wrong — he  can't 
afford  a  shave.  His  trousers  bag 
about  the  knees,  his  ancient  coat's 
a  botch ;  his  shoes  allow  his  feet  to 
freeze,  he  bears  a  dollar  watch. 
And  when  the  grocer's  store  he  seeks 
to  buy  a  can  of  hash,  in  frigid  tones 
the  merchant  speaks :  "111  have  to 
have  the  cash!"  And  when  he's 
dead  a  hundred  years  the  people 
will  arise,  and  praise  the  man  who 
found  new  spheres  cavorting  through 
the  skies.  The  children  in  the 
public  schools  will  learn  to  bless 
his  name,  and  guide  their  studies  by 
his  rules,  and  glory  in  his  fame. 


28 


fcW"0""***!^* 


And  in  the  graveyard,  where  he  went 
unhonored  by  the  town,  a  big  fat 
marble  monument  will  hold  the  wise 
man  down. 

Tne  low-brow  spars  a  dozen 
rounds,  before  an  audience,  and  lie 
is  loaded  down  with  pounds,  and 
shillings,  crowns  and  pence. 
Where'er  he  goes  the  brawny  Goth 
is  lionized  by  all,  like  Caesar,  when 
he  cut  a  swath  along  the  Lupercal. 
Promoters  grovel  at  his  feet,  and 
offer  heaps  of  scads,  if  he  wall  con 
descend  to  meet  some  other  bruising 
lads.  The  daily  journals  print  his 
face  some  seven  columns  wide,  call 
him  the  glory  of  the  race,  the  nation  s 
hope  and  pride.  And  having  thus 
become  our  boast,  the  wonder  of  our 
age,  he  battles  with  his  larnyx  most, 
and  elevates  the  stage.  In  fifty 
years  when  people  speak  the  sa 
vant's  name  with  pride,  the  pug  s 
renown  you'll  vainly  seek — it  with 
its  owner  died. 

There  may  be  consolation  there 
for  him  who  bravely  tries  to  solve 


29 


great  problems  in  his  lair,  and  make 
the  world  more  wise ;  but  when  the 
world  is  really  wise — may  that  day 
come  eftsoons ! — we'll  give  the  men 
of  learning  pies,  and  give  the  fighters 
prunes. 


30 


THE  POLITICIAN 

1  WILL  not  say  tliat  black  is  black, 
*  nor  yet  that  white  is  white ;  for 
rash  assertions  oft  come  back,  and 
put  us  in  a  plight.  Some  people 
hold  that  black  is  white,  and  some 
that  white  is  black;  to  me  the 
neutral  course  looks  right;  I  take 
the  middle  track.  If  I  should  say 
that  black  is  white,  and  white  is 
black,  today,  some  one  would  mix 
the  two  tonight — tomorrow  they'd  be 
gray.  In  politics  I  wish  to  thrive, 
and  swiftly  forge  ahead,  so  dare  not 
say  that  I'm  alive,  nor  swear  that  I 
am  dead.  You  say  that  fishes  climb 
the  trees,  that  cows  on  wings  do  ny, 
I  can't  dispute  such  facts  as  these, 
so  patent  to  the  eye ;  with  any  man 
I  will  agree,  no  odds  what  he  defends, 
if  he  will  only  vote  for  me,  and 
boom  me  to  his  friends. 


31 


RANDOM  SHOTS 

I  SHOT  an  arrow  into  the  air,  it  fell 
*•  in  the  distance,  I  knew  not  where, 
till  a  neighbor  said  that  it  killed  his 
calf,  and  I  had  to  pay  him  six  and  a 
half  ( $6.50) .  I  bought  some  poison 
to  slay  some  rats,  and  a  neighbor 
swore  that  it  killed  his  cats;  and, 
rather  than  argue  across  the  fence, 
I  paid  him  four  dollars  and  fifty  cents 
($4.50).  One  night  I  set  sailing  a 
toy  balloon,  and  hoped  it  would 
soar  till  it  reached  the  moon;  but 
the  candle  fell  out,  on  a  farmer's 
straw,  and  he  said  I  must  settle  or 
go  to  law.  And  that  is  the  way 
with  the  random  shot;  it  never  hits 
in  the  proper  spot;  and  the  joke  you 
spring,  that  you  think  so  smart,  may 
leave  a  wound  in  some  fellow's 
heart. 


32 


LOOK  PLEASANT,  PLEASE! 

LOOK  pleasant,  please !"  the 
photo  expert  told  me,  for  I  had 
pulled  a  long  and  gloomy  face ;  and 
then  I  let  a  wide,  glad  smile  enfold 
me  and  hold  my  features  in  its  warm 
embrace. 

"Look  pleasant,  please!"  My 
friends,  we  really  ought  to  cut  out 
these  words  and  put  them  in  a 
frame ;  long,  long  we'd  search  to 
find  a  better  motto  to  guide  and 
help  us  while  we  play  the  game. 
Look  pleasant,  please,  when  you 
have  met  reverses,  when  you  be 
neath  misfortune's  stroke  are  bent, 
when  all  your  hopes  seem  riding 
round  in  hearses — a  scowling  brow 
won't  help  you  worth  a  cent.  Look 
pleasant,  please,  when  days  are 
dark  and  dismal  and  all  the  world 
seems  in  a  hopeless  fix ;  the  clouds 
won't  go  because  your  grief's  abys 
mal,  the  sun  won't  shine  the  sooner 
for  your  kicks.  Look  pleasant, 
please,  when  Grip — King  of  diseases, 


33 


has  filled  your  system  with  his  mi 
crobes  vile ;  I  know  it's  hard,  but 
still,  between  your  sneezes,  you  may 
be  able  to  produce  a  smile.  Look 
pleasant,  please,  whatever  trouble 
galls  you;  a  gloomy  face  won't  cure 
a  single  pain.  Look  pleasant,  please, 
whatever  ill  befalls  you,  for  gnashing 
teeth  is  weary  work  and  vain. 

Look  pleasant,  please,  and  thus 
inspire  your  brothers  to  raise  a  smile 
and  pass  the  same  along;  forget 
yourself  and  think  a  while  of  others, 
and  do  your  stunt  with  gladsome 
whoop  and  song. 


84 


COURAGE 

BRAVE  men  are  they  who  set 
their  faces  toward  the  polar 
bergs  and  floes,  who  roam  the  wild, 
unpeopled  places,  perchance  to  find 
among  the  snows  a  resting-place  re 
mote  and  lonely;  a  winding-sheet  of 
deathless  white,  where  elemental 
voices  only  disturb  the  brooding 
year-long  night. 

Brave  souls  are  they  whose  man- 
made  pinions  have  borne  them  over 
plains  and  seas,  who  conquered  wide 
and  new  dominions,  and  strapped  a 
saddle  on  the  breeze.  Their  engine- 
driven  wings  are  wearing  new  path 
ways  through  the  realm  of  clouds; 
they  play  with  death,  with  dauntless 
daring,  to  please  the  breathless, 
fickle  crowds. 

Brave  men  go  forth  to  distant 
regions,  forsaking  luxury  and  ease; 
through  all  the  years  they've  gone 
in  legions,  to  unknown  lands,  o'er 
stormy  seas ;  and  when,  by  sword  or 


fever  smitten,  tliey  blithely  jour 
neyed  to  the  grave,  full  well  they 
knew  their  names  were  written 
down  in  the  annals  of  the  brave. 

I  am  as  brave  as  any  rover  des 
cribed  in  gay,  romantic  screeds,  but, 
when  my  fitful  life  is  over,  no  epic 
will  narrate  my  deeds.  Condemned 
to  silent  heroism,  I  go  my  unmarked 
way  alone,  and  no  one  hands  me 
prune  or  prism,  as  token  that  my 
deeds  are  known.  But  yesterday  my 
teeth  were  aching,  and  to  the  pain 
less  dentist's  lair  I  took  my  way, 
unawed,  unquaking,  and  sat  down  in 
the  fatal  chair.  He  dug  around  my 
rumbling  molars  with  drawing- 
knives  and  burglars'  tools,  and  cross 
cut  saws  and  patent  rollers,  and 
marlinspikes  and  two-foot  rules.  He 
climbed  upon  my  lap  and  prodded 
with  crowbar  and  with  garden  spade, 
to  see  that  I  was  not  defrauded  of  all 
the  agony  that's  made.  He  pulled 
and  yanked  and  pried  and  twisted, 
and  uttered  oft  his  battle  shout,  and 
now  and  then  his  wife  assisted — till 


•MM***^ 


36 


finally  tlie  teeth  came  out.  And 
never  once  while  thus  he  pottered 
around  my  torn  and  mangled  jowl — 
not  once,  while  I  was  being  slaught 
ered,  did  I  let  out  a  single  howl !  No 
brass-bands  played,  none  sang  a 
ditty  of  triumph  as  I  took  my  way; 
no  signs  of  "Welcome  to  Our  City" 
were  hung  across  the  street  that  day ! 

Thus  you  and  I  and  plain,  plug 
mortals  may  show  a  courage  high 
and  fine,  and  be  obscure,  while 
some  jay  chortles  in  triumph  where 
the  limelights  shine. 


37 


PLAY  BALL 

"1DLAY  tall!"  you  tear  the  fans 
•*•  exclaim,  when  weary  of  a 
dragging  game,  when  all  the  players 
pause  to  state  their  theories  in  a 
joint  debate,  or  when  they  go  about 
their  tiz  as  though  they  had  the 
rteumatiz.  And  if  they  do  not  heed 
the  hunch  that's  given  ty  the  bleach 
ers  tunch,  they  find,  when  next  they 
start  to  play,  that  all  the  fans  have 
stayed  away.  The  talking  graft  is 
all  in  vain,  and  loafers  give  the 
world  a  pain.  The  fans  who  watch 
the  game  of  life  despise  the  sluggard 
in  the  strife.  They'll  have  tut  little 
use  for  you,  who  tell  what  you  in 
tend  to  do,  and  hand  out  promises 
galore,  tut,  sometow,  never  seem 
to  score.  No  matter  wtat  your 
stunt  may  te,  in  this  the  country  of 
the  free,  you'll  find  that  loafing  never 
pays ;  cut  out  the  flossy  grand  stand 
plays ;  put  in  your  hardest  licks  and 
whacks,  and  get  right  down  to  Old 
Brass  Tacks,  and,  undismayed  ty 
bruise  or  fall,  go  right  ahead — in 
short,  play  tall! 


THE  OLD  SONGS 

'T'HE  modern  airs  are  cheerful,  me- 
A  lodious  and  sweet ;  we  Lear  them 
sung  and  whistled  all  day  upon  the 
street.  Some  lilting  ragtime  ditty 
that's  rollicking  and  gay  will  gain  the 
public  favor  and  hold  it — for  a  day. 
But  when  the  day  is  ended,  and  we 
are  tired  and  worn,  and  more  than 
half  persuaded  that  man  was  made 
to  mourn,  how  soothing  then  the  mu 
sic  our  fathers  used  to  know!  The 
songs  of  sense  and  feeling,  the  songs 
of  long  ago!  The  "Jungle  Joe" 
effusions  and  kindred  roundelays 
will  do  to  hum  and  whistle  through 
out  our  busy  days ;  and  in  the  garish 
limelight  the  yodelers  may  yell,  and 
Injun  songs  may  flourish — and  all  is 
passing  well,  but  when  to  light  the 
heavens  the  shining  stars  return,  and 
in  the  cottage  windows  the  lights 
begin  to  burn,  when  parents  and 
their  children  are  seated  by  the  fire, 
remote  from  worldly  clamor  and  all 
the  world's  desire,  when  eyes  are 


soft  and  shining,  and  hearths  with 
love  aglow,  how  pleasant  is  the  sing 
ing  of  songs  of  long  ago ! 


40 


GUESSING  VS.  KNOWING 


FI  were  selling  nails  or  glass, 
or  pills  or  shoes  or  garden  sass, 
or  honey  from  the  bee — whatever 
line  of  goods  were  mine.  Yd  study 
up  that  special  line  and  know  its 
history. 

If  I  a  stock  of  rags  should  keep, 
I  d  read  up  sundry  books  on  sheep 
and  wool  and  how  it  grows.  Be 
neath  my  old  bald,  freckled  roof, 
Fd  store  some  facts  on  warp  and 
woof  and  other  things  like  those. 
I'd  try  to  know  a  spinning-jack  from 
patent  churn  or  wagon  rack,  a  loom 
from  hog-tight  fence ;  and  if  a  man 
came  in  to  buy,  and  asked  some 
leading  question,  I  could  answer 
with  some  sense. 

If  I  were  selling  books,  Fd  know 
a  Shakespeare  from  an  Edgar  Poe, 
a  Carlyle  from  a  Pope ;  and  I  would 
know  Fitzgerald's  rhymes  from 
Laura  Libbey's  brand  of  crimes, 
or  Lillian  Russell's  dope. 


41 


If  I  were  selling  shoes,  I'd  seize 
the  fact  that  on  gooseberry  trees, 
good  leather  doesn't  grow;  tkat 
shoe  pegs  do  not  grow  like  oats, 
that  cowhide  doesn't  come  from 
goats — such  things  I'd  surely  know. 

And  if  I  were  a  grocer  man.  I'd 
open  now  and  then  a  can  to  see 
what  stuff  it  held;  'twere  tetter 
than  to  writhe  in  woe  and  make 
reply,  **I  didn't  know,"  when  some 
mad  patron  yelled. 

I  hate  to  hear  a  merchant  say: 
"I  think  that  this  is  splendid  hay," 
"I  guess  it's  first  class  tea."  He 
ought  to  know  how  good  things  are, 
if  he  would  sell  his  silk  or  tar  or 
other  goods  to  me.  Oh,  knowledge 
is  the  stuff  that  wins ;  the  man  with 
out  it  soon  begins  to  get  his  trade 
in  kinks.  No  matter  where  a  fellow 
goes,  he's  valued  for  the  things  he 
knows,  not  for  the  things  he  thinks. 


42 


WHEN  WOMEN  VOTE 

"  TANE  Samantha."  said  the  hus- 
J  band,  as  he  donned  his  hat  and 
coat,  "I  would  offer  a  suggestion  ere 
you  go  to  cast  your  vote.  We  have 
had  a  bitter  struggle  through  this 
strenuous  campaign,  and  the  issues 
are  important,  and  they  stand  out 
clear  and  plain.  Colonel  Whitehead 
stands  for  progress — for  the  uplift 
that  \ve  need :  he  invites  investiga 
tion  of  his  every  word  and  deed. 
He's  opposed  to  all  the  ringsters  and 
to  graft  of  every  kind ;  he's  a  man 
of  spotless  record,  clean  and  pure 
in  heart  and  mind.  His  opponent. 
Major  Bounder,  stands  for  all  that 
I  abhor;  plunder,  ring  rule  and  cor 
ruption  you  will  see  him  working 
for;  all  the  pluggers  and  the  heelers 
stood  by  him  in  this  campaign — so 
I  ask  your  vote  for  Whitehead  and 
the  uplift,  dearest  Jane/' 

** William  Henry,"  said  the  house 
wife,  "I  am  sorry  to  decline,  but  the 
wife  of  Colonel  Whitehead  never 


was  a  friend  of  mine.  Last  July  she 
gave  a  party — you  recall  her  Purple 
Tea? — and  invited  all  the  neighbors, 
but  she  said  no  word  to  me.  I  don't 
care  about  your  issues  or  your  up 
lift  or  your  ring,  but  I  won't  support 
the  husband  of  that  silly,  stuck-up 
thing !" 

Major  Bounder  was  the  victor  on 
that  day  of  stress  and  strife,  for  it 
seemed  that  many  women  didn't 
like  the  Colonel's  wife. 


44 


THE  AGENT  AT  THE  DOOR 

AWAY  with  you,  stranger!"  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Granger,  "avaunt 
and  skedaddle !  Come  here  never 
more !  You  agents  are  making  me 
crazy  and  breaking  my  heart,  and  I 
beg  that  you'll  trot  from  my  door! 
IVe  bought  nutmeg  graters,  shoe 
laces  and  gaiters,  IVe  bought  every 
thing  from  a  lamp  to  a  lyre ;  IVe 
bought  patent  heaters  and  saws  and 
egg  beaters  and  stoves  that  exploded 
and  set  me  afire/' 

"You're  laboring  under  a  curious 
blunder,"  the  stranger  protested;  "I 
know  very  well  that  agents  are  try 
ing,  and  dames  tired  of  buying;  but 
be  not  uneasy — IVe  nothing  to  sell." 

"I'm  used  to  that  story — it's  whis 
kered  and  hoary,"  replied  Mrs. 
Granger,  "you  want  to  come  in, 
and  then  when  you  enter,  in  tones 
of  a  Stentor  you'll  brag  of  your  pol 
ish  for  silver  and  tin.  Or  maybe 
you're  dealing  in  xinguents  healing. 


45 


or  dye  for  the  whiskers,  or  salve  for 
the  corns,  or  something  that  quick 
ens  egg-laying  in  chickens,  or  knobs 
for  the  cattle  to  wear  on  their 
horns.  It's  no  use  your  talking, 
you'd  better  be  walking,  and  let  me 
go  on  with  my  housework,  I  think; 
you  look  dissipated,  if  truth  must 
be  stated,  and  if  you  had  money 
you'd  spend  it  for  drink/' 

"My  name,"  said  the  stranger, 
who  backed  out  of  danger — the 
woman  had  reached  for  the  broom 
by  the  wall — "is  Septimus  Beecher; 
I  am  the  new  preacher;  I  just 
dropped  around  for  a  pastoral  call/* 


46 


GOOD  AND  BAD  TIMES 


are  so  bad  I  have  the 
blues/'  says  Bilderbeck,  who 
deals  in  shoes.  "All  day  I  loaf 
around  my  store,  and  folks  don't 
come  here  any  more  ;  I  reckon  they 
have  barely  cash  to  buy  cigars  and 
corn  beef  hash,  and  when  they've 
bought  the  grub  to  eat,  they  can't 
afford  to  clothe  their  feet. 

"There's  something  wrong  when 
trade's  thus  pinched,"  says  he,  "and 
someone  should  be  lynched.  The 
cost  of  living  is  so  high  that  it's 
economy  to  die  ;  and  death  is  so  ex 
pensive,  then,  that  corpses  want  to 
live  again.  The  trusts  have  robbed 
us  left  and  right,  and  there's  no 
remedy  in  sight;  the  government  is 
out  of  plumb  and  should  be  knocked 
to  Kingdom  Come." 

And  Ganderson,  across  the  street, 
is  selling  furniture  for  feet.  All  day 
he  hands  out  boots  and  shoes  with 
cheerful  cockadoodledoos.  "I  have 


47 


no  reason  to  complain,  says  Gan- 
derson;  k"all  kicks  are  vain;  my  cus 
tomers  don't  come  to  hear  me  rais 
ing  thunder  by  the  year. 

"They  have  some  troubles  of  their 
own,  and  do  not  care  to  hear  me 
groan.  And  so  I  team  around  my 
place,  and  -wear  a  smile  that  splits 
my  face,  and  gather  in  the  shining 

dime — trade's  getting  better  all  the 

•        i  *  * 
time! 

Though  days  be  dark  and  trade  be 
tough,  it's  always  well  to  make  a 
bluff,  to  face  the  world  with  cheer 
ful  eye,  as  though  the  goose  were 
hanging  high.  No  merchant  ever 
made  a  friend  by  dire  complainings 
without  end.  And  people  never  seek 
a  store  to  hear  a  grouchy  merchant 
roar;  they'll  patronize  the  wiser 
gent  who  doesn't  air  his  discon 
tent. 


48 


B 


uceaneers 


BUCCANEERS 

(The  Pirate  of  1612) 

,  once  again  my  merry  men  and 
I  are  on  the  water  with  pros 
pects  fair,  with  hearts  to  dare,  and 
souls  athirst  for  slaughter !  Before 
the  breeze  we  scour  the  seas,  our 
vessel  low  and  raking,  and  men 
who  find  our  ship  behind  in  mortal 
fear  are  quaking.  We  love  the 
fight  and  our  delight  grows  as  the 
strife  increases ;  we  slash  and  slay 
and  hew  our  way  to  win  the  golden 
pieces.  To  hear,  to  feel  the  clang 
of  steel!  Ah,  that,  my  men,  is 
rapture !  Our  hearts  are  stern,  we 
sink,  we  burn,  we  kill  the  men  we 
capture !  Why  mercy  show  when 
well  we  know  that  when  our  course 
is  ended,  we  all  must  die — they'll 
hang  us  high,  unshriven,  unde 
fended  !  Ah,  wolves  are  we  that 
roam  the  sea,  and  rend  with  savage 
fury;  as  soft  our  mind,  our  hearts 
as  kind  will  be  judge  and  jury!  To 
rob  and  slay  we  go  our  way,  our 


vessel  low  and  raking;  and  men 
who  hail  our  ebon  sail  may  well  be 
chilled  and  quaking! 

(The  Pirate  of  1912) 

MY  heart  is  light  and  glad  tonight, 
and  life  seems  good  and  merry ; 
my  coffer  groans  with  golden  bones 
Fve  pulled  from  the  unwary.  Ah, 
raiment  fine  and  gems  are  mine, 
and  costly  bibs  and  tuckers;  I  got 
my  rocks  for  mining  stocks — I 
worked  the  jays  and  suckers.  What 
though  my  game  is  going  lame- — a 
jolt  the  courts  just  gave  me — my 
lawyers  gay  will  find  a  way  to  beat 
the  law  and  save  me.  I'll  just  lie 
low  a  year  or  so  until  the  row  blows 
over,  then  Fll  come  back  to  my  old 
shack  and  be  again  in  clover!  I've 
fifty  ways  to  work  the  jays  and 
there's  a  fortune  in  it!  The  sucker 
crop  will  never  stop,  for  one  is  born 
each  minute. 


52 


ST.  PATRICK'S  DAY 

AWAY  with  tears  and  sordid  fears, 
no  trouble  will  we  borrow,  but 
shed  our  woes  like  winter  clothes — 
it's  Patrick's  day  tomorrow.  With 
clubs  and  rakes  we'll  chase  the 
snakes,  and  send  the  toads  a~flying, 
and  we'll  be  seen  with  ribbons 
green,  all  other  hues  decrying.  In 
grass-green  duds  we'll  plant  the 
spuds,  where  they  can  do  no  growing ; 
with  flat  and  sharp  we'll  play  the 
harp,  and  keep  the  music  going. 
Then  let  us  yell,  for  all  is  well,  the 
world's  devoid  of  sorrow;  the  toads 
are  snared,  the  snakes  are  scared, 
it's  Patrick's  day  tomorrow. 


NAMING  THE  BABY 

ORST I  thought  Yd  call  him  Caesar ; 
*  but  my  Uncle  Ebenezer  said  tliat 
name  was  badly  hoodoed — wasn't 
Julius  Caesar  slain?  Then  I  said, 
"I'll  call  him  Homer" ;  but  my  second 
cousin  Gomer  answered;  "Homer 
was  a  pauper,  and  he  wrote  his 
rhymes  in  vain/'  Long  I  pondered, 
worried  greatly  seeking  names  both 
sweet  and  stately,  something  proud 
and  high  and  noble,  such  as  ancient 
heroes  bore.  "I  shall  call  him  Alex 
ander — "but  an  innocent  bystander 
muttered,  "Aleck  was  a  tyrant,  and 
ne  splashed  around  in  gore."  And 
my  aunts  said :  "Only  trust  us,  and 
well  name  him  Charles  Augustus, 
which  is  princely  and  becoming,  and 
will  end  this  foolish  fuss."  But  my 
Cousin  James  objected :  "Nothing 
else  can  be  expected,  if  you  give  him 
such  a  handle,  but  that  folks  will  call 
him  Gus."  "Let  us  call  the  darling 
Reggie,"  said  my  cheerful  sister 
Peggy,  "which  is  short  for  Rex  or 


54 


Roland  or  some  other  kingly  name." 
But  my  Uncle  George  protested. 
"Surely,"  said  he,  "you  tut  jested : 
never  yet  did  youth  named  Reggie 
scale  the  shining  height  of  fame/' 
Thus  it  was  for  weeks  together,  and 
I  often  wondered  whether  other  pa 
rents  ever  suffered  as  I  did  upon  the 
rack.  All  my  uncles  and  my  cousins 
and  my  aunts  gave  tips  by  dozens, 
so  I  named  the  bate  John  Henry, 
and  for  short  we  call  him  Jack. 


WON  AT  LAST 
I. 

D ISE,  Charles  De  Jones,  rise,  if 
*^  you  please;  you  don't  look  well 
upon  your  knees.  You  say  that  I 
must  be  your  bride ;  in  all  the  whole 
blamed  countryside  no  other  girl 
could  fill  your  life  with  joy  and  sun 
shine,  as  your  wife.  What  can  you 
offer — you  who  seek  my  hand?  You 
draw  ten  bucks  a  week.  Shall  I  your 
Cheap  John  wigwam  share,  the 
daughter  of  a  millionaire,  who  early 
learned  in  wealth  to  bask?  Shall  I 
get  down  to  menial  task?  Go  chase 
yourself!  My  hand  shall  go  to  one 
who  has  a  roll  of  dough !" 

Thus  spake  Letitia  Pinkham 
Brown,  the  fairest  girl  in  all  the  town. 
Her  lover,  crushed  beneath  the 
weight  of  blows  from  an  unkindly 
fate,  rended  his  garments  and  his 
hair  and  turned  away  in  dumb  de 
spair. 


66 


II. 

Our  hero's  feet,  of  course,  were 
cold,  and  yet  his  heart  was  strong 
and  bold.  "It  will  not  heal  this  wound 
of  mine,"  he  said,  "to  murmur  and 
repine.  Though  sad  my  heart,  I'll 
sing  and  smile,  and  try  to  earn  a 
princely  pile ;  and  having  got  the  bul 
lion,  then  I'll  ask  her  for  her  hand 
hand  again.'* 

He  quenched  the  yearnings  of  his 
heart  and  plunged  into  the  clanging 
mart  as  agent  for  a  handsome  book 
instructing  women  how  to  cook.  His 
volume  sold  to  beat  the  band  and 
wealth  came  in  hand  over  hand ;  but 
ever,  as  he  scoured  the  town,  he 
thought  of  'Titia  Pinkham  Brown, 
and  scalding  tears  anon  would  rise 
and  almost  cook  his  steely  eyes. 

in. 

Once  more  a  lover  knelt  before 
Letitia  Pinkham  Brown  and  swore 
to  cherish  her  while  life  endures, 


57 


"Come   out   of  it,"    she    said,    "I'm 
yours/' 

He  rose,  a  man  of  stately  frame ;  J 
Roland  Percival  his  name.  He  had  a 
high,  commanding  mien,  and  seemed 
possessed  of  much  long  green;  in 
costly  fabrics  he  was  dressed,  and 
diamonds  flashed  upon  his  breast. 

"And  so  you're  mine!"  J.  Roland 
cried.  "You  11  te  my  own  and  only 
bride !  Oh,  joy,  oh,  rapture !  I  am 
It!  Excuse  me  while  I  throw  a  fit. 
Come  to  my  arms,  my  precious  dear  ! 
My  darling  love — but  who  comes 
here?" 

De Jones  stood  in  the  arbor  door, 
and  deadly  was  the  smile  he  wore. 

IV. 

J.  Roland  cried  in  abject  fear: 
"Great  Scott!  What  are  you  doing 
here?" 

"Well  may  you  ask,"  said  Charles 
De  Jones,  in  bitter,  caustic,  scathing 
tones.  "YouVe  dodged  me  for  a 


dozen     weeks,     tut     now — ktis     the 
avenger  speaks — you'll  have  to  pay 

up  what  you  owe,  or  to  the  county  jug 

'ii         *  * 
you  11  go. 

Then  turning  to  the  maiden  fair. 
De Jones  went  on :  "That  villain 
there !  Four  months  ago  I  sold  that 
man  a  cook  book  on  th'  installment 
plan.  He  gave  his  solemn  pledge  to 
pay,  for  seven  years,  two  cents  a  day. 
He  made  two  payments,  then  he 
flunked.  I've  hung  around  the  place 
he  bunked,  I've  chased  him  through 
the  rain  and  sleet,  I've  boned  him  on 
the  public  street,  IVe  shadowed  him 
by  night  and  day,  but  not  a  kopeck 
would  he  pay.  I'm  weary  of  these 
futile  sprints;  I'll  roast  him  in  the 
public  prints,  and  give  him  such  a 

bum  renown  he'll  be  a  byword  in  the 

»« 
town. 

She  viewed  her  lover  in  amaze, 
and  cold  and  scornful  was  her  gaze. 

"And  so  the  book  you  handed  me, 
to  plight  our  troth,"  with  ire  said  she, 
bought  from  Charlie   here    on 


59 


tick?  Skidoo !  A  deadbeat  makes 
me  sick!  I'll  never  marry  any  jay 
who  can't  dig  up  two  cents  a  day!" 

v. 

"I  have  a  bundle  in  the  bank," 
said  Charles,  as  on  his  knee  he  sank, 
"and  all  of  it  is  yours  to  blow,  so  let 
us  to  the  altar  go.'* 

"I've  learned  some  things/*  said 
L.  P.  Brown,  "and  now  I  would  not 
turn  you  down  if  you  were  busted 
flat,  my  dear ;  I've  learned  that  love's 
the  one  thing  here  that's  worth  a 
continental  dam* ;  you  ask  for  me — 
well,  here  I  am !" 


*Dam — A    former    copper    coin, 
Dictionary. 


THE  GREATEST  THING 

THE  orator  shrieks  and  clamors, 
•••  and  kicks  up  a  lot  of  dust,  and 
larrups  and  whacks  and  hammers 
the  weary  old  sinful  Trust;  the 
congressman  chirps  and  chatters, 
pursuing  his  dream  of  fame;  but 
there's  only  one  thing  that  matters, 
and  that  is  the  baseball  game.  The 
pessimist  rails  and  wrangles,  and 
takes  up  a  lot  of  room  and  tells,  in  a 
voice  that  jangles,  his  view  of  the 
nation's  doom;  we  shy  at  his  why 
and  wherefore,  and  balk  at  his 
theories  lame ;  for  there's  only  one 
thing  we  care  for,  and  that  is  the 
baseball  game.  The  rakers  of  muck 
are  busy,  with  shovels  and  spades 
and  screens,  a-dishing  up  stuff 
that's  dizzy,  in  the  popular  maga 
zines  ;  these  fellows  are  ever  present, 
with  stories  of  graft  and  shame,  and 
there's  only  one  thing  that's  pleasant, 
and  that  is  the  baseball  game. 
Some  people  are  in  a  passion,  and 
have  been,  for  many  weeks,  because 


the  decrees  of  fashion  make  womeiv 
look  muck  like  freaks;  why  worry 
about  the  dress  of  the  frivolous 
modern  dame?  There 's  only  one 
thing  impressive,  and  that  is  the 
baseball  game. 


THE  UMPIRE 

DE  kind  to  the  umpire  who  bosses 
*-*  the  game,  whose  doom  is  too 
frequently  sealed ;  it  serves  no  good 
purpose  to  camp  on  his  frame,  and 
strew  him  all  over  the  field. 

The  umpire  is  human — which  fact 
you  may  doubt — a  creature  of  tissues 
and  blood ;  he  pales  at  the  sound  of 
your  bloodthirsty  shout,  and  shrinks 
from  the  sickening  thud.  He  may 
have  a  vine  covered  cottage  like 
yours,  a  home  where  a  loving  wife 
dwells;  and  when  he's  on  duty  the 
fear  she  endures  is  something  no 
chronicler  tells.  She  hears  from 
the  bleachers  a  thunderous  roar, 
and  thinks  it  announces  his  fate. 
"I  reckon,"  she  sighs,  "he'll  come 
home  on  a  door,  or  perhaps  in  a 
basket  or  crate/* 

Be  kind  to  the  umpire;  his  hopes 
are  your  own;  he's  doing  the  best 
that  he  can;  his  head  isn't  elm  and 
his  heart  isn't  stone;  he's  just  like 


the  neighboring  man.  Don't  call 
Him  a  boneKeacl  or  say  his  work's 
punk,  or  that  he's  a  robber  insist; 
don't  pelt  him  with  castings  or  vitri 
fied  junk,  or  smite  him  with  bludgeon 
or  fist. 

Suppose  you  are  doing  the  best 
you  know  how,  and  striving  your 
blamedest  to  please,  and  bystanders 
throw  at  your  head  a  dead  cow,  or 
break  your  legs  off  at  the  knees. 
Suppose  you  are  trying  your  best 
to  be  fair,  and  critics  come  up  in  a 
crowd,  set  fire  to  your  whiskers,  and 
pull  out  your  hair,  and  put  you  in 
shape  for  a  shroud.  If  people  re 
fused  to  believe  that  you  try  to  give 
them  their  fifty  cents'  worth,  you'd 
be  so  discouraged  you'd  sit  down  and 
cry,  and  say  there's  no  justice  on 
earth. 

Be  kind  to  the  umpire  and  give 
him  a  chance  to  live  to  a  happy  old 
age;  reward  him  with  praise  and 
encouraging  glance  when  he  does 
his  devoir  on  his  stage.  Save  up 


64 


your  dead  cats  for  the  scavenger 
man,  your  cabbage  for  cigarette 
smoke ;  the  umpire  is  doing  the  best 
that  he  can — he  shouldn't  be  killed 
as  a  joke. 


THE  TWO  MERCHANTS 

IV/TETHINKS  that  clerks,  the  whole 
*-**  world  through,  will  do  much  as 
their  bosses  do,  for  which  they're 
not  to  blame ;  for  emulation  is  a  part, 
in  office,  drawing  room  and  mart, 
of  this  weird  human  game. 

I  often  go  to  Jimpson's  store;  I 
blow  in  twice  a  day  or  more  to  buy 
my  prunes  and  things.  Old  Jimp- 
son  is  a  joyous  jay ;  he  hustles  around 
the  livelong  day,  he  whistles  and  he 
sings.  I  like  to  watch  the  blamed 
old  chump ;  I  like  to  see  him  on  the 
jump,  he  is  so  full  of  steam;  and 
all  his  clerks  have  caught  his  style ; 
they  hump  around  with  cheerful 
smile,  and  do  not  loaf  or  dream. 

When  I  blow  into  Jimpson's  lair 
they  all  seem  glad  to  see  me  there 
and  anxious  for  my  trade;  they 
give  me  brisk  attention  then,  and 
sing  the  chorus,  "Come  again!5* 
when  from  the  shop  I  fade. 

Jim    Clinker    has    another    store. 


Jim  Clinker's  Lead  seem  always 
sore,  he  grumbles  and  he  scowls ; 
and  all  his  clerks  have  caught  that 
trick;  they  gloom  around  the  store 
like  sick  or  broken-hearted  owls. 
When  I  go  in  to  buy  some  tea,  a 
languid  salesman  waits  on  me  as 
though  it  were  a  crime  to  rouse 
him  from  his  sour  repose,  his  brood 
ing  over  secret  woes,  and  occupy 
his  time. 

If  Clinker's  clerks  to  Jimpson 
went,  they  soon  would  shake  their 
discontent,  and  carol  like  the  birds; 
if  Jimpson's  clerks  for  Clinker  toiled 
their  optimism  would  be  spoiled ; 
they'd  hand  out  doleful  words. 

And  so  I  say,  and  say  some  more, 
that  all  the  salesmen  in  a  store  will 
emulate  their  boss ;  if  he  is  sour  on 
all  the  works,  you  may  be  sure  his 
string  of  clerks  will  be  a  total  loss. 


TODAY'S  MOTTO 

;;  OVE  your  neighbor  as  your- 
*— '  self/'  was  a  motto  famed  of 
yore ;  now  it's  placed  upon  the  shelf, 
with  about  a  thousand  more;  now 
the  child  on  mother's  knee,  sees  the 
lovelight  in  her  eyes,  while  she  says  : 
"Where'er  you  be,  boil  the  germs 
and  swat  the  flies  P  In  the  olden 
golden  days,  preachers  told  the 
sacred  tale  of  poor  Jonah's  erring 
ways,  and  his  journey  in  the  whale ; 
of  the  lions  in  their  den,  and  of 
Daniel,  good  and  wise ;  now  they 
preach  this  creed  to  men:  "Boil 
the  germs  and  swat  the  flies!" 
When  my  dying  eyelids  close,  and 
the  -world  is  growing  dim,  while  I'm 
turning  up  my  toes,  I  may  ask  to 
hear  a  hymn ;  and  the  people  by  my 
bed,  they  will  sing,  with  streaming 
eyes,  while  each  humbly  bows  his 
head :  "Boil  the  germs  and  swat 
the  flies!" 


68 


SOME  PROTESTS 

f  SIT  in  my  cushioned  motor,  in- 
*  dulging  in  wise  remarks,  con 
cerning  the  outraged  voter  crushed 
down  by  the  money  sharks.  We 
burdened  and  weary  toilers  are 
ground  by  the  iron  wheels  of  soul 
less,  despotic  spoilers,  and  bruised 
by  the  tyrants'  heels.  They're 
flaunting  their  corsair  mottoes  while 
treading  upon  our  toes,  and  some  of 
us  can't  have  autos  or  trotters  or 
things  like  those.  I  know  of  a 
worthy  neighbor  who  lives  in  a 
humble  cot,  and  after  long  years 
of  labor  he  hasn't  a  single  yacht! 

While  eating  my  dinner  humble — 
of  porterhouse  steak  and  peas,  and 
honey  from  bees  that  bumble,  and 
maybe  imported  cheese — I  think, 
with  a  bitter  feeling,  of  insolent 
money  kings,  who,  drunk  with  their 
wealth  and  reeling,  condemn  me  to 
eat  such  things.  The  pirate  and 
banknote  monger  still  gloat  o'er 
their  golden  stacks,  while  I  must 


appease  my  hunger  with  oysters  and 
canvasbacks.  The  plutocrat  lias  his 
chuffer,  a  minion  of  greed  and  pelf; 
the  poor  man  must  weep  and  suffer, 
and  drive  his  own  car  himself. 

The  plutocrat  homeward  totters 
with  diamonds  to  load  his  girls,  and 
meanwhile  my  -wife  and  daughters 
must  struggle  along  with  pearls. 
In  silk,  with  a  trademark  Latin,  the 
plutocrat's  wife  appears,  and  I  can 
afford  tut  satin  to  tog  out  my 
dimpled  dears.  The  plute  has  a 
splendid  palace,  with  pictures  and 
Persian  rugs ;  he  drinks  from  a 
silver  chalice  and  laughs  at  the  poor 
men's  jugs,  and  I,  in  my  lowly 
cottage,  that's  shadowed  by  tree 
and  vine,  fill  up  on  mock  turtle 
pottage,  with  only  three  kinds  of 
wine! 

it's  time  for  a  revolution,  to 
punish  the  wealthy  ones!  I'll  fur 
nish  the  elocution  if  you'll  tring  the 
bombs  and  guns! 


70 


THE  WORKERS 

T  TERE'S  to  the  man  who  labors 
*  •*•  and  does  it  with  a  song!  He 
stimulates  his  neighbors  and  helps 
the  world  along! 

I  like  the  men  who  do  things,  who 
hustle  and  achieve ;  the  men  who 
saw  and  glue  things,  and  spin  and 
dig  and  weave. 

Man  earns  his  bread  in  sweat 
or  in  blood  since  Adam  sinned ;  and 
bales  of  hay  are  better  than  are 
your  bales  of  wind. 

Man  groans  beneath  his  burden, 
beneath  the  chain  he  wears ;  and 
still  the  toiler's  guerdon  is  wortrt 
the  pain  he  bears. 

For  there  s  no  satisfaction  be» 
neath  the  bending  sky  like  that  the 
man  of  action  enjoys  when  night  is 
nigh. 

To  look  back  o'er  the  winding  and 
dark  and  rocky  road,  and  know 
you  bore  your  grinding  and  soul- 
fatiguing  load — 


71 


As  strong  men  ought  to  tear  it, 
through  all  the  stress  and  strife — 
that's  the  reward  of  merit — that  is 
the  balm  of  life ! 

I  like  the  men  who  do  things,  who 
plow  and  sow  and  reap,  who  build 
and  delve  and  hew  things  while 
dreamers  are  asleep. 


I 


THE  UTILITARIAN 


\Y/E  sat  around  tlie  stove  dis- 
**  coursing  of  mighty  deeds  that 
we  had  done ;  of  struggling  up  the 
Alps  and  forcing  our  way  to  sum 
mits  then  unwon;  of  fights  with 
lions  and  hyenas,  of  facing  grim 
and  ghostly  shapes,  of  dodging  bail 
iffs  and  subpoenas,  and  many  peril 
ous  escapes. 

And  one  sat  by,  distraught  and 
gloomy,  and  listened  to  each  stirring 
tale ;  his  beard  was  long,  his  eyes 
were  rheumy,  his  nose  was  red,  his 
aspect  stale.  And  this  old  pilgrim, 
dour  and  hoary,  on  all  our  pleasure 
drew  the  noose ;  for,  at  the  end  of 
every  story,  he'd  sadly  ask:  "What 
was  the  use?" 

I  told  of  how  I  went  a-sailing  to 
Europe  in  an  open  boat;  the  billows 
raved,  the  winds  were  wailing  till  I 
could  scarcely  keep  afloat.  The  salt 
sea  spray  was  on  my  features ;  I 
heard  King  Neptune's  angry  shouts ; 


72 


I  fought  with  whales  and  other 
creatures,  and  was  pursued  by  wa 
terspouts.  I  sailed  those  seas  for 
weeks  together,  and  bore  my  life  in 
either  hand,  and  very  often  doubted 
whether  Fd  ever  bring  my  boat  to 
land.  But  still,  resolved  on  win 
ning  glory,  I  sailed  along  like  Cap 
tain  Loose.  The  old  man  broke  into 
my  story,  and  mildly  asked :  "What 
was  the  use?" 

Jones  told  of  how,  appareled  thin 
ly  (the  thirst  for  glory  warmed  his 
breast) ,  he  scaled  the  heights  of 
Mount  McKinley  and  placed  our  flag 
upon  its  crest.  He  placed  the  flag  to 
thwart  the  scorner,  the  doubter,  and 
the  man  obtuse ;  and  then  the  old 
man  in  the  corner  looked  up  and 
asked:  "What  was  the  use?" 

Brown  told  of  how  a  cask  he  en 
tered  and  floated  o'er  the  Horseshoe 
Falls,  and  how  all  eyes  for  months 
were  centered  on  him;  in  cottages 
and  halls  the  people  joined  to  sing 
his  praises  or  level  at  his  head 
abuse ;  the  old  man  heard  his  burn- 


H 


ing  phrases,  and  sadly  asked  :  "What 
was   the  use?" 


We  smote  him  roundly  in  our  an 
ger,  resolved  to  cook  his  ancient 
goose,  and  still,  above  the  din  and 

clangor,   we   heard  him  ask,  "What 

1  v 

is   the  user 


FIRESIDE  ADVENTURES 

TT  is  not  mine  the  world  to  roam; 
*  when  I  was  born  the  Fates  decreed 
that  I  should  always  stay  at  home, 
and  deal  in  Kay  and  bran  and  feed. 
For  mighty  deeds  I  have  no  chance 
while  I  am  rustling  in  my  store ;  and 
yet  my  life  has  its  romance,  and  IVe 
adventures  by  the  score. 

For  evening  comes,  and  then, 
serene,  to  my  abode  I  take  my  way, 
and  grab  this  good  old  magazine, 
and  leave  the  world  of  bran  and 
hay.  Through  Arctic  wildernesses 
cold,  I  follow  the  explorers'  train, 
or  seeking  go  for  pirate's  gold  along 
the  storied  Spanish  Main.  Oft,  by 
the  miner's  struggling  lamp,  I  count 
the  nuggets  I  have  won ;  or  in  the 
cowboys'  -wind-swept  camp  indulge 
in  wild  athletic  fun.  The  big  round 
world  is  all  for  me,  brought  to  me 
by  the  sprightly  tale;  o'er  every 
strange  and  distant  sea  my  phantom 
ship  has  learned  to  sail,  I  travel 
in  all  neighborhoods  where  daring 


76 


man  has  left  his  tracks ;  I  am  the 
hunter  in  trie  woods,  I  am  trie 
woodman  with  his  ax.  I  am  the 
grim,  effective  sleuth  who  goes  forth 
in  a  rare  disguise,  and  quickly  drags 
the  shining  truth  from  out  a  moun 
tain  range  of  lies.  I  am  the  watcher 
of  the  roads,  the  highwayman  of 
wold  and  moor,  relieving  rich  men 
of  their  loads,  to  give  a  rakeoff  to 
the  poor.  I  am  the  hero  of  the 
crowds,  as,  on  my  trusty  aeroplane, 
I  cleave  a  pathway  through  the 
clouds,  to  Milky  Way  and  Charles's 
Wain.  I  am  the  pitcher  known  to 
fame ;  I  pitch  as  though  I  worked  by 
steam,  and  in  the  last  and  crucial 
game  I  win  the  pennant  for  my 
team.  I  am  the  white  man's  final 
hope,  on  whom  his  aspirations  hinge, 
and,  notwithstanding  all  the  dope, 
1  knock  the  daylights  from  the  dinge. 

I  am  the  man  of  action  when,  with 
lamplight  gloating  o'er  the  scene,  I 
bask  at  leisure  in  my  den,  and  read 
my  fav'rite  magazine.  And  so  all 
day  I  stay  at  home  attending  to  the 


77 


treadmill  grind ;  but  wlien  night 
comes  afar  I  roam,  and  leave  the 
workday  world  behind. 


7S 


HUNTING  A  JOB 

I  WOULD  like  a  situation.  I  Iiave 
*  hunted  for  it  long,"  said  a  youth 
who  looked  discouraged ;  "every 
thing  that  is  is  wrong;  there  is  no 
demand  for  later,  no  respect  for  will 
ing  hands,  hence  the  people  who  are 
idle  are  as  frequent  as  the  sands.  I 
have  waited  in  the  pool  hall  through 
the  long  and  weary  day,  and  no  lu 
crative  position  seemed  to  come 
along  that  way ;  I  have  stood  upon 
the  corner,  smoking  at  my  trusty 
cob,  but  no  merchant  came  to  hire 
me, though  all  knew  I  had  no  job ;  I 
have  sat  on  every  doorstep  that 
against  me  wasn't  fenced,  you  could 
scarcely  find  a  building  that  I  haven't 
leaned  against;  I  have  smoked  a 
thousand  stogies,  I  have  chewed  a 
cord  of  plug,  I  have  shaken  dice  with 
dozens,  I  have  touched  each  cider 
jug,  to  sustain  my  drooping  spirits 
while  I  waited  for  a  berth,  with  some 
up-to-date  employer  who'd  appre 
ciate  my  worth.  But  the  \vorld  is 


out  of  kilter  and  the  country's  out 
of  plumb,  and  the  poor  downtrodden 
voter  finds  that  things  are  on  the 
bum/ 


N: 


OLD  AND  NEW 

'EW  SONGS  are  made  in  long 
array;  we  learn  and  sing  them, 
— for  a  day,  and  then  they  fade  and 
die  away.  But  when  the  long,  sad 
day  is  through,  refreshing  as  the  eve 
ning  dew,  are  those  old  songs  our 
fathers  knew.  New  books,  in  rich 
and  gorgeous  dress,  are  coming 
hourly  from  the  press,  and  charm 
by  all  their  lovliness.  But  when 
from  bench  or  desk  we  roam,  to  find 
the  resting  place  at  home,  we  read 
the  old,  old  treasured  tome.  New 
friends  are  made  at  every  reach  of 
our  long  road  to  Styx's  beach;  new 
friends  of  warm  and  pleasant  speech. 
But  when  life's  sun  is  in  the  West, 
and  feet  are  tired  and  hearts  oppress 
ed,  the  old  time  friend  seems  always 
best. 


81 


THE  HANDY  EDITOR 

"\Y7HEN  a  man  lias  got  a  grievance 
™  that  is  keeping  him  awake, 
some  old  moldy,  tiresome  trouble 
that  has  made  his  innards  ache,  then 
he  comes  a-c  ally  hooting  to  the  print 
ing-office  door,  for  he  wants  to  share 
his  trouble  with  the  humble  editore. 

\Vhen  a  man  has  got  a  hobby  that 
has  put  him  on  the  bum,  then  the 
people  nee  a-shrieking  when  they 
chance  to  see  him  come ;  but  he 
knows  one  weary  mortal  who  must 
surfer  and  endure,  so  he  comes  to 
share  his  theories  with  the  lowly 
editure. 

When  a  man  has  got  a  story  that 
with  age  was  stiff  and  stark  when  old 
Father  Noah  told  it  to  the  people  in 
the  ark,  then  he  comes,  a-bubbling 
over,  to  the  Weekly  Bugle's  lair,  for 
he  wants  to  share  his  gladness  with 
the  soulful  editaire. 

O,  he's  always  freely  giving  of  the 
things  that  make  us  tired,  and  he's 


often  pretty  stingy  with  the  things 
that  are  desired;  he  might  bring  a 
ray  of  sunlight  to  a  life  that's  sad  and 
drear,  if  he'd  give  the  absent  treat 
ment  to  the  heartsick  editeer. 


THE  SLEEPER  WAKES 

DERHAPS  youVe  heard  of  old 
•*  Tom  Tinkle,  who  went  to  sleep 
like  Rip  Van  Winkle,  and  slept  for 
thirty  years ;  he  woke  the  other  day, 
and  gazing  around  him  on  the  sights 
amazing,  his  soul  was  filled  with 
fears. 

"What  world  is  this?"  he  asked,  in 
terror;  "what  life,  of  which  I'm  now 
a  sharer?  What  globe  do  we  infest? 
Oh,  is  it  Saturn,  Mars  or  Venus? 
How  many  planets  are  between  us 
and  good  old  Mother  Earth?  What 
mighty  bird  is  that  a-soaring — I 
seem  to  hear  its  pinions  roaring,  it 
scoots  along  so  fast?  Old  Earth, 
with  all  her  varied  features,  had 
no  such  big,  outlandish  creatures 
around,  from  first  to  last/' 

"It  is  an  airship,  Thomas  Tinkle," 
I  answered  him ;  "a  modern  wrinkle, 
just  one  of  many  score  which  were 
by  scientists  invented  to  make  the 
people  more  contented  since  you  be 
gan  to  snore/* 


84 


TKe  Sleeper  Wakes 


I  told  him  oi  the  wireless  sys 
tem  and  other  wonders — he  had 
missed  'em,  since  he  was  sound 
asleep ;  of  submarines  which  sink 
and  travel  serenely  o'er  the  mud 
and  gravel  beneath  the  raging  deep. 

"You  can't  convince  me,"  said  the 
waker,  "that  'tis  the  earth — you  are 
a  faker,  and  deal  in  fairy  tales ;  no 
man  could  soar  away  up  yonder, 
like  some  blamed  albatross  or  con 
dor  on  metal  wings  or  sails.  And  as 
for  sending  long  dispatches  from 
Buffalo  clear  down  to  Natchez,  the 
same  not  being  wired,  if  that's  done 
here  it's  not  the  planet  whereon  I 
lived  when  mortals  ran  it;  your 
stories  make  me  tired.  But  what 
are  these  rip-snorting  wagons?  We 
must  be  in  the  land  of  dragons !  I 
never  saw  the  like  !  So  riotously  are 
they  scooting,  so  wildly  are  they 
callyhooting  they  fairly  burn  the 
pike!" 

I  told  him  they  were  merely  autos 
whose  drivers  lived  up  to  their  mot 
toes  that  speed  laws  are  in  vain ;  aiic3 


87 


otter  miracles  amazing  witli  delicate 
and  pointed  phrasing  I  started  to 
explain.  I  told  of  triumphs  most 
astounding,  of  things  which  should 
be  quite  confounding  to  resurrected 
men ;  but  in  the  middle  of  my  soaring 
I  heard  old  Thomas  Tinkle  snoring 
— he'd  gone  to  sleep  again. 


IN  HORSELAND 

A  WELL-FED  horse  drove  into 
**  town,  behind  a  span  of  ancient 
men,  -whose  knees  were  sore  from 
falling  down  and  striving  to  get  up 
again ;  their  poor  old  ribs  were  bare 
of  meat,  and  they  had  sores  upon 
their  necks ;  there  wasn't,  on  the 
village  street,  a  tougher  looking 
pair  of  wrecks.  And  so  they  sham 
bled  up  the  street,  a  spectre  har 
nessed  with  a  ghost;  the  horse 
descended  from  his  seat,  and  left 
them  standing  by  a  post.  And  there 
they  stood  through  half  the  night, 
and  shook  and  shivered  in  the  tugs, 
the  while  their  master,  in  delight, 
was  shaking  dice  with  other  plugs. 
And  there  they  died,  of  grief  and 
cold — no  more  they'll  haul  the  heavy 
plow;  their  master  said,  when  he 
was  told  :  "They  cost  blamed  little, 
anyhow!** 


INAUGURATION  DAY,  1913 


Washington  is  swarming 
with  men  of  sterling  worth,  all 
bent  upon  reforming  the  heaven  and 
the  earth  ;  they  come  from  far  Savan 
nah,  they  come  from  Texarkana, 
and  points  in  Indiana,  with  loud  yet 
seemly  mirth.  They're  come  from 
far  Alaska,  where  show  is  heaped 
on  snow;  they've  journeyed  from 
Nebraska  where  commoners  do 
grow;  the  famed,  the  wise,  the  witty, 
the  timid,  and  the  gritty  have  come 
from  Kansas  City  and  also  Broken 
Bow.  Their  battle  shout  is  thrilling 
as  they  go  marching  by,  and  every 
man  is  willing  at  once  to  bleed  and 
die  ;  to  guarantee  this  nation  a  fine 
Administration  he'd  take  a  situation 
or  kill  himself  with  pie.  The  editors 
of  journals  are  marching  in  the 
throng;  and  old  and  war-worn  col 
onels  are  teetering  along  ;  and  friends 
of  Andrew  Jackson  and  Jefferson, 
now  waxin'  a  trifle  old,  are  taxin* 
their  dusty  throats  with  song.  No 


wonder  Woodrow  Wilson,  as  this 
great  crowd  appears,  his  silken  'ker 
chief  spills  on  some  proud  and  grate 
ful  tears ;  the  ranks  of  colonels  face 
him — such  loyalty  must  brace  him, 
and  from  dejection  chase  him  in 
future  pregnant  years.  No  omce 
need  go  begging  before  this  mighty 
host;  he  need  not  go  a-leggmg  for 
masters  of  the  post;  he  has  to  do  no 
pleading;  they  bring  the  help  he's 
needing;  of  dying  and  of  bleeding 
they  make  a  modest  boast.  And  so 
he  views  the  strangers  from  Mary 
land  and  Maine,  the  tall,  bewhis- 
kered  grangers  who  till  the  Western 
plain;  the  men  from  desks  and 
foyers,  the  sheepmen  and  the  saw 
yers,  the  lumberjacks  and  lawyers, 
all  come  to  ease  the  strain ;  he  views 
the  dusty  millers  from  Minnesota 
land ;  the  shining  social  pillars  from 
Boston's  sacred  strand ;  the  men  of 
hill  and  valley  around  his  standard 
rally  ( and  on  the  snaps  keep  tally) , 
each  with  a  helping  hand.  "My 
fears  are  in  the  distance/'  is  Wood- 


row's  grateful  song;  "what  foe  can 
make  resistance  against  this  mighty 
throng?  So  let  us,  lawyer,  farmer, 
ex-plute,  and  social  charmer,  gird 
on  our  snow-white  armor,  and  para 
lyze  each  wrong  T* 


PRAYER  OF  THE  HEATHEN 

DEFORE  a  wooden  idol  two  hea- 
^  then  knelt  and  prayed ;  it  was 
their  day  of  bridal,  the  savage  and 
the  maid.  "We  two  have  come  to 
gether,  to  journey  through  the  years, 
in  calm  and  stormy  weather,  in  sun 
shine  and  in  tears.  O  idol  most 
exalted,  protect  us  on  our  way,  and 
may  our  feet  be  halted  from  going 
far  astray.  This  maid/1  the  bride 
groom  muttered,  "is  fresh  from  Na 
ture's  hands;  her  boudoir  is  not 
cluttered  with  strings  and  pins  and 
bands;  she  does  not  paint  her  fea 
tures,  or  wear  rings  on  her  paws; 
she's  one  of  Nature's  creatures,  and 
lives  by  Nature's  laws.  Her  foot, 
she  does  not  force  it  into  a  misfit 
shoe ;  nor  does  she  wear  a  corset  to 
squeeze  her  frame  in  two.  That 
frame  has  got  upon  it  no  clothes  she 
does  not  need;  she  wears  no  bug 
house  bonnet  that  makes  man's 
bosom  bleed.  This  maid,  this 
weaker  vessel,  has  movements  swift 


and  free,  and  she  can  run  and 
wrestle,  and  she  can  climb  a  tree. 
And  if  she  shows  a  yearning  to 
emulate  the  whites,  our  good  old 
customs  spurning,  pursuing  vain  de 
lights,  O  idol  stern  and  oaken,  take 
thou  thy  sceptre  dread,  and  may  the 
same  be  broken  upon  her  silly  head/' 

"This  bridegroom,"  said  the 
maiden,  "untutored  is  and  rude,  but 
still  he  is  not  laden  with  habits  vain 
and  lewd.  I  hope  to  see  him  trundle 
each  evening  to  his  kraal,  and  not 
blow  in  his  bundle  for  long  cold 
pints  of  ale.  With  my  consent  hell 
never  get  next  the  slot  machine,  or 
use  his  best  endeavor  to  burn  up 
gasoline.  No  tailor  hath  arrayed 
him,  no  valet  hath  defaced!  He 
stands  as  Nature  made  him,  broad- 
chested,  slim  of  waist!  And  he  can 
swim  the  Niger,  or  rob  a  lion's  lair, 
or  whip  a  full-grown  tiger  at  Reno 
or  elsewhere!  And  if  he  would 
abandon  our  simple  heathen  ways, 
and  learn  to  place  his  hand  on  some 
foolish  white  men's  craze,  O  idol,  in 


94 


your  dudgeon,  obey  Iiis  bride's  be 
hest!  Take  up  your  big  spiked 
bludgeon,  and  swat  him  galley 

A!" 

west! 


THEORY  AND  PRACTICE 

IN  public  I  talk  of  Milton  and  give 
•*  him  ecstatic  praise,  and  say  that  I 
love  to  ponder  for  hours  o'er  his  liv 
ing  lays;  I  speak  of  his  noble  epic, 
that  jewel  which  proudly  shines,  and 
quote  from  his  splendid  sonnets  (I 
know  maybe  twenty  lines)  ;  but 
when  I  am  home  John  Milton  is  left 
on  the  bookcase  shelf;  he's  rather 
too  dull  for  reading — you  know  how 
it  is  yourself;  to  lighten  the  weight 
of  sorrow  that  over  my  spirit  hangs, 
I  dig  up  the  works  of  Irwin  or  Nes- 
bit  or  Kendrick  Bangs. 

I  talk  much  of  Thomas  Hardy 
when  I'm  with  the  cultured  crowd, 
and  say  that  few  modern  writers  so 
richly  have  been  endowed ;  I  speak 
of  his  subtle  treatment  of  life  and 
its  grim  distress,  and  quote  from 
"The  Trumpet  Major"  or  spiel  a  few 
lines  from  "Tess."  But  when  I  am 
in  my  chamber,  where  no  one  can 
see  me  read,  remote  from  the  high 
brow  people  and  all  that  the  high- 

96 


brows  need,  I  never  have  known  a 
longing  to  react  for  the  Hardy 
tomes;  I  put  in  a  joyous  evening 
with  Watson  and  Sherlock  Holmes. 

I  talk  a  good  deal  of  Wagner  in 
parlor  and  drawing  room,  and  speak 
of  the  gorgeous  fabrics  he  wove  on 
his  wondrous  loom,  the  fabrics  of 
sound  and  beauty,  the  wonderful 
scroll  of  tone,  and  say  that  this 
mighty  genius  remains  in  a  class 
alone.  I  whistle  "The  Pilgrims' 
Chorus,"  and  chortle  of  "Lohen 
grin,"  and  say  that  all  other  music 
is  merely  a  venial  sin.  But  when  at 
my  own  piano  Susannah  sits  down 
to  play,  I  beg  her  to  cut  out  Wagner 
and  shoo  all  his  noise  away.  **Tm 
weary  and  worn  and  beaten;  my 
spirits,"  I  say,  "are  low;  so  give  us 
some  helpful  music — a  few  bars  of 
'Jungle  Joe!'  ' 


97 


FOOL  AND  SAGE 

fool  and  his  money  are 
*-  parted,  not  long  did  they  stay  in 
cahoots;  but  the  fool  is  the  cheer 
iest-hearted  and  gladdest  of  human 
galoots.  His  neighbor  is  better  and 
wiser,  six  figures  might  tell  what 
he's  worth ;  but  O  how  folks  wish 
the  old  miser  would  fall  off  the  edge 
of  the  earth ! 


THEN  AND  NOW 

TN  olden  times  the  gifted  bard 
*•  found  life  a  pathway  rough  and 
hard.  Starvation  often  was  his 
goad,  and  some  dark  garret  his 
abode,  and  there,  when  nights  were 
long  and  chill,  he  sadly  plied  his 
creaking  quill.  He  wrote  of  shep 
herds  and  their  crooks,  of  verdant 
vales  and  babbling  brooks,  display 
ing  artfully  his  lore — while  bailiffs 
threatened  at  the  door.  And  hav 
ing  wrought  his  best,  he  took  with 
trembling  hands  his  little  book  to 
lay  before  some  haughty  lord,  and 
cringe  around  for  a  reward.  Some 
times,  perchance,  he  got  a  purse ; 
anon  he  only  drew  a  curse ;  and 
often  in  a  prison  yard  the  weary, 
debt-incumbered  bard  was  herded 
with  the  squalid  throng,  and  damned 
the  shining  peaks  of  song. 

The  world  moves  on.  The  bard 
today  finds  life  a  soft  and  easy 
way.  If  he  elects  to  cut  his  hair 
he  has  the  price  and  some  to  spare. 


Attired  in  purple,  lie  goes  by  with 
hard  boiled  skirt  and  scrambled  tie, 
and  you  can  hear  his  bullion  clank 
as  he  goes  prancing  to  the  bank. 
He  writes  no  tame,  insipid  books  of 
dairy  maids  or  shepherds*  crooks, 
of  singing  birds  or  burbling  streams, 
or  any  other  worn  -  out  themes. 
Anon  he  touches  up  his  lyre  to 
boost  a  patent  rubber  tire,  or  sings 
a  noble  song  that  thrills  concerning 
someone's  beeswax  pills.  His  lyre  s 
a  wonder  to  behold ;  its  frame  is 
pearl,  its  strings  are  gold.  His 
sheetiron  laurels  never  fade;  the 
grocer's  glad  to  get  his  trade.  While 
he  can  make  the  muses  sweat  he'll 
never  go  to  jail  for  debt. 

He  calmly  puts  his  harp  away, 
when  he  has  toiled  a  10-hour  day, 
and  softly  sighs:  "There's  nothing 
wrong  with  this  old  graft  of  death 
less  song!" 


100 


THE  SLEEPER 

THEY  have  planted  him  deep  in  a 
grave  by  the  fence,  where  the 
sandburs  are  thick  and  the  jimson 
is  dense ;  he's  sleeping  at  last,  and 
as  still  as  a  mouse,  held  down  by  a 
boulder  as  big  as  a  house,  and  the 
whangdoodle  mourns  in  a  neigh 
boring  tree,  with  a  voice  that's  as 
sad  as  the  sorrowing  sea.  They 
have  planted  him  deep  in  the  silt 
and  the  sand,  with  appropriate  airs 
by  the  fife  and  drum  band,  and  they 
joyfully  yell  when  the  sad  rites  are 
o'er:  "Gosh  ding  him,  he's  taking 
his  straw  votes  no  more. 


101 


FOOLING  AROUND 

GRIGGINS  the  grocer,  has 
gone  to  the  dump,  and  people 
who  knew  mm  say  he  "was  a  chump ; 
his  prospects  were  fine  when  he 
opened  his  store,  and  customers 
brought  him  their  bullion  and  ore, 
and  bought  his  potatoes  and  pump 
kins  and  peas,  his  milk  and  molasses, 
his  chicory,  cheese.  But  soon  they 
went  elsewhere  to  blow  in  their 
plunks,  for  Griggins  turned  out  such 
a  foolish  old  hunks ;  while  others 
were  rustling  for  shilling  and  pound, 
old  Griggins  the  grocer  kept  fooling 
around. 

He  stood  in  the  alley  and  ranted 
and  tore,  debating  the  tariff  with 
some  one  next  door;  he  roasted  the 
tariff  on  spigots  and  spoons  while 
customers  waited  to  purchase  some 
prunes;  he  argued  that  congress  is 
out  for  the  pelf,  and  left  his  trade 
palace  to  wait  on  itself.  And  pa 
trons  got  huffy,  their  molars  they 


102 


ground,    while    Griggins    the    grocer 
was  fooling  around. 

Old  Griggins  kept  cases  on  sprint 
ers  and  pugs,  and  talked  of  their 
records,  while  people  with  jugs  were 
wishing  he'd  fill  them  with  syrup  or 
oil,  and  cut  out  his  yarns,  which  were 
starting  to  spoil;  he'd  talk  about 
Jeffries  or  Johnsing  or  Gotch  for 
forty-five  minutes  or  more  by  the 
watch,  while  customers  jingled  their 
coin  in  his  store,  and  waited  and 
waited,  and  sweated  and  swore.  At 
last  they  would  leave  his  old  joint 
on  the  bound,  while  Griggins  the 
grocer  was  fooling  around. 

The  man  who  would  win  in  these 
strenuous  days  must  tend  to  his 
knitting  in  forty-five  ways,  be  eager 
and  hustling,  with  vim  all  athrob,  his 
mind  not  afield,  but  intent  on  his  job. 
The  sheriff  will  come  with  his  horse 
and  his  hound  to  talk  with  the  man 
who  keeps  fooling  around. 


103 


GUESS  WHO! 

LIE  is  the  press  and  the  people, 
*  *  the  sultan  who  rules  the  Turks ; 
he  is  the  bell  in  the  steeple,  and  he 
is  the  whole  blamed  works.  He  is 
the  hill  and  valley,  the  dawning,  the 
dusk,  the  moon ;  he  is  the  large  white 
alley,  he  is  the  man  in  the  moon. 
He  is  the  soothing  slumber,  he  is  the 
soul  awake,  he  is  the  big  cu 
cumber,  that  gives  us  the  belly 
ache.  He  is  the  fire  that  quickens, 
the  company  that  insures;  he  is 
the  ill  that  sickens,  and  he  is 
the  thing  that  cures.  He  is  the  rul 
ing  Russian,  and  we  are  the  grovel 
ing  skates;  he  is  the  constitution, 
and  he's  the  United  States. 


TWl»"*lllHmi    i. 


104 


TRYING  AGAIN 

boarding  house,  tavern  or  inn 
was  in  sight;  so  into  a  cavern 
went  Bruce,  in  sore  plight.  By 
enemies  hunted,  a  price  on  his  head, 
and  all  his  schemes  shunted,  he 
wished  he  was  dead.  "In  vain  my 
endeavor,  repulsed  my  demands; 
I'll  try  again  never — I  throw  up  my 
hands !  '  And  so  he  lay  sighing  and 
cussing  his  fate,  and  wished  he  was 
lying  stone  dead  in  a  crate.  A  spider 
was  spinning  its  web  by  the  wall; 
now  losing,  now  winning,  now  taking 
a  fall;  though  often  it  tumbled,  it 
breathed  not  a  sob,  nor  crawfished 
nor  grumbled,  but  stuck  to  its  job. 
Then  Bruce  opened  wider  his  eyes 
and  exclaimed  :  1  hat  dodgasted 
spider  has  made  me  ashamed !  Fm 
but  a  four-flusher  to  sit  here  and 
whine  !  This  morning  must  usher  in 
triumphs  of  mine!'* 

He  canned  all  his  wailing  and  cut 
out  the  frown,  and  went  forth 
a-smilmg,  and  won  a  large  crown ! 


105 


And  legions  ot  fellows  with  tears 
in  their  eyes,  who  wear  out  their 
bellows  with  groaning  and  sighs, 
who  think  they  are  goners,  ordained 
to  the  dump,  would  harvest  some 
honors  if  they  would  just  hump! 
The  spiders  are  teaching,  the  same 
as  of  old;  the  spiders  are  preaching 
a  gospel  of  gold :  "Though  taffled 
and  broken,  O  children  of  men,  let 
grief  be  unspoken — go  at  it  again  T* 


106 


ICONOCLASM 

KING  SKEPTIC  wears  his  modern 
crown,  his  stern,  destructive 
law  prevails ;  he's  tearing  all  our 
idols  down,  disproving  all  our  fav  rite 
tales.  Is  there  a  legend  you  hold 
dear,  some  legend  of  the  long  ago? 
King  Skeptic  hears  it  with  a  sneer, 
and  digs  up  history  to  show  that 
things  of  that  sort  never  chanced, 
and  never  could,  and  never  will. 
"We  have/'  he  says,  "so  much  ad 
vanced,  that  fairy  tales  don't  fill  the 
bill.  No  faked-up  tales  of  knightly 
acts,  no  Robin  Hood  romance  for 
me ;  the  only  things  worth  while  are 
Facts,  Statistics,  and  the  Rule  of 
Three." 

With  diagrams  he  shows  full  well 
that  old-time  tales  are  things  to 
scorn;  that  such  a  man  as  William 
Tell,  in  liklihood,  was  never  born. 
If  Gessler  lived  and  had  a  hat,  he 
didn't  hang  it  on  a  pole ;  the  rules  of 
Euclid  show  us  that — so  goes  King 
Skeptic's  rigmarole.  But,  granting 


107 


that  he  had  a  lid,  and  hung  it  on  a 
pole  awhile,  and  granting  that  the 
people  did  tow  down  to  reverence 
that  tile,  this  does  not  prove  that 
William  shot  an  apple  through  an 
apple's  core,  and  so  the  anecdote  is 
rot — don't  let  us  hear  it  any  more. 

One-eyed  Horatius  never  held  the 
bridge  beside  his  comrades  bold, 
while  Sextus  and  his  foemen  yelled 
— because  there  was  no  bridge  to 
hold.  With  Fact  King  Skeptic 
pounds  your  head,  and  prods  you 
with  it  to  the  hilt,  and  shows  Hor 
atius  had  been  dead  ten  years  before 
the  bridge  was  built.  "He  fell  not 
in  the  Tiber's  foam,  performed  no 
feats  of  arms  sublime.  I  know! 
The  city  clerk  of  Rome  sent  me  the 
records  of  that  time !" 

Mazeppa's  ride  was  all  a  joke,  as 
all  the  statisticians  know;  the  horse 
he  rode  was  city  broke,  and  stopped 
whene'er  he  whispered  "whoa." 
Most  luckily,  the  village  vet  wrote 
down  the  facts  with  rugged  power,- 


108 


Mazeppa  simply  made  a  bet  the 
Rorse  could  go  three  miles  an  hour; 
he  wasn't  strapped  upon  its  back,  no 
perils  dire  did  him  befall;  he  rode 
around  a  kite-shaped  track,  and  lost 
his  bet,  and  that  was  all. 

And  so  it  goes;  you  can't  relate  a 
legend  of  heroic  acts  but  that  the 
Skeptic  then  will  state  objections 
based  on  Deadly  Facts.  Romance 
is  but  a  total  loss,  and  all  the  joy  of 
life  departs;  we've  nothing  left  but 
Charlie  Ross,  and  he'll  turn  up,  to 
break  our  hearts. 


109 


GATHERING  ROSES 

FVE  gathered  roses  and  the  like, 
*•  in  many  glad  and  golden  Junes ; 
but  now,  as  down  the  world  I  hike, 
my  weary  hands  are  filled  with 
prunes.  IVe  gathered  roses  o'er 
and  o'er,  and  some  were  white,  and 
some  were  red;  tut  when  I  took 
them  to  the  store,  the  grocer  wanted 
eggs  instead.  I  gathered  roses  long 
ago,  in  other  days,  in  other  scenes; 
and  people  said :  "You  ought  to  go, 
and  dig  the  weeds  out  of  your 
beans/'  A  million  roses  bloomed 
and  died,  a  million  more  will  die 
today;  that  man  is  wise  who  lets 
them  slide,  and  gathers  up  the  bales 
of  hay. 


no 


THE  FUTURE  SPORT 

THE  airship  is  a  thing  achieved ; 
it  has  its  rightful  place,  as  well 
as  any  autocart  that  ever  ran  a  race. 
The  farmer,  in  the  corning  years, 
when  eggs  to  town  he  brings,  will 
flop  along  above  the  trees,  upon  his 
rusty  wings.  The  doctor,  when  he 
has  a  call,  from  patients  far  or  near, 
will  quickly  strap  his  pinions  on,  and 
hit  the  atmosphere.  And  airship 
racing  then  will  be  the  sport  to  please 
the  crowds;  there'll  be  racecourses 
overhead,  and  grandstands  in  the 
clouds.  The  umpire,  on  his  patent 
wings,  will  hover  here  and  there; 
the  fans,  with  rented  parachutes, 
will  prance  along  the  air;  the  joyous 
shrieks  of  flying  sports  will  keep  the 
welkin  hot,  and  soaring  cops  will 
blithely  chase  the  scorching  aero 
naut.  Well  soon  be  living  overhead, 
our  families  and  all;  and  then  well 
only  need  the  earth  to  land  on  when 
we  fall. 

i 


in 


TAKING  ADVICE 

A  FORTY-FOOT  constrictor  once 
**  was  swallowing  a  goat,  and  hav 
ing  lots  of  trouble,  for  the  horns 
stuck  in  his  throat.  And  then  a  wart- 
hog  came  along,  and  said :  "Oh,  fool 
ish  snake !  To  swallow  all  your 
victuals  whole  is  surely  a  mistake. 
It  puts  your  stomach  out  of  plumb, 
your  liver  out  of  whack,  and  gives  you 
all  the  symptoms  in  the  latest  al 
manac.  If  serpents  for  abundant 
health  would  have  a  fair  renown, 
they'll  chew  a  mouthful  half  an 
hour  before  they  take  it  down.  Eat 
slowly,  with  a  tranquil  mind  and 
heart  serene  beneath,  and  always 
use  a  finger  bowl,  and  always  pick 
your  teeth.  I'm  reading  up  Woods 
Hutchinson  and  Fletcher  and  those 
guys,  and  following  the  rules  they 
make,  which  are  extremely  wise, 
and  oh,  it  pains  me  to  the  quick, 
and  jars  my  shrinking  soul,  to  see 
a  foolish  snake  like  you  absorbing 
dinners  whole !" 


112 


The  serpent  got  His  dinner  down, 
with  whiskers,  horns  and  feet,  then 
slept  three  weeks;  then  looked 
around  for  something  more  to  eat. 
And,  having  killed  a  jabberwock, 
and  found  it  fat  and  nice,  he  thought 
he'd  eat  according  to  the  warthog's 
sage  advice. 

Ah,  never  more  that  snake  is  seen 
upon  his  native  heath!  The  little 
serpents  tell  the  tale  of  how  he 
starved  to  death ! 

Moral: 

The  counsel  of  the  great  may  help 
the  man  next  door,  'tis  true,  and 
yet  turn  out  to  be  a  frost  when 
followed  up  by  you. 


113 


POST-MORTEM  INDUSTRY 

YOU'VE  heard  of  Richard  Randle 
*  Rox?  He  died ;  they  put  him  in 
a  box,  and  lowered  him  into  a  grave, 
and  said:  **Hell  surely  now  be 
have." 

For  years  this  fertile  Richard 
penned  books,  rhymes  and  essays 
without  end.  His  helpful,  moral 
dope  was  seen  in  every  uplift  maga 
zine,  and  people  used  to  wonder  how 
the  wheels  within  that  bulging  brow 
produced  such  countless  bales  of 
thought,  such  wondrous  wealth  of 
tomyrot;  and  folks  chewed  cloves 
and  cotton  waste  to  try  to  take 
away  the  taste. 

At  last  he  died  before  his  time — 
killed  off  by  an  ingrowing  rhyme. 
The  mourners  laid  him  on  his  pall, 
his  three  assorted  names  and  all, 
and  said:  *  "Doggone  him!  Now 
hell  stop  this  thing  of  writing  help 
ful  slop/'  He  got  the  finest  grave 
in  town,  and  marble  things  to  hold 
him  down. 


114 


Long  years  have  passed  since 
R.  R.  Rox  was  placed  in  silver- 
mounted  box;  and  does  he  rest  in 
peace?  Instead,  he's  working  harder 
now  he's  dead.  New  books  are 
coming  from  his  pen  until  the  chas 
tened  sons  of  men  look  round,  their 
eyelids  red  with  grief — look  round, 
imploring  for  relief.  "Is  there  no 
way/'  so  wails  the  host,  "to  lay  this 
Richard  Randle's  ghost?" 


116 


THE  CONQUEROR 

The  pugilist,  tall  and  majestic, 
and  proud  of  his  numerous  scars, 
was  telling  of  foreign,  domestic,  and 
all  kinds  of  Homeric  wars.  His 
hearers  were  standing  before  him  in 
attitudes  speaking  of  awe,  for  what 
could  they  do  but  adore  him,  the 
man  with  the  prognathous  jaw? 

"My  make-up,"  he  said,  "rather 
queer  is,  Fve  never  seen  others 
that  way;  I  simply  don't  know  what 
a  fear  is ;  I  really  rejoice  in  the  fray, 
I  guess  Fm  the  champion  glarer,  my 
glance  seems  to  wilt  all  my  foes ;  Fve 
seen  fellows  crumple  with  terror 
before  we  had  got  down  to  blows. 
This  made  me  so  often  the  victor; 
no  qualms  in  my  bosom  I  feel;  I 
don't  fear  a  boa  constrictor — my 
heart  is  an  engine  of  steel." 

And  so  of  his  feats  superhuman 
he  talked  in  a  voice  ringing  loud, 
until  a  small,  fiery  -  eyed  woman 
came  elbowing  up  through  the  crowd. 


116 


The  Conqueror 


Her  voice,  like  her  person,  was 
spindling,  but  Hercules  heard  when 
she  called :  "Come  home,  now,  and 
cut  up  some  kindling,  or  I  will  be 
snatching  you  bald !"  No  more  of 
his  triumphs  he  lilted,  like  Spartacus 
spieling  in  Rome;  the  steel  hearted 
warrior  wilted,  and  followed  his  con- 
querer  home. 


119 


THE  TRUTHFUL  MERCHANT 

IF  Ananias  lived  today  and  ran  the 
corner  store,  he  couldn't  keep  the 
wolf  away  from  his  old  creaking 
door.  For  men  who  spend  their 
hard-earned  rocks  won't  patronize 
the  man  who  must  forever,  when  he 
talks,  make  truth  an  also  ran. 

I  bought  a  whole  new  suit  of 
clothes  from  Bilks,  across  the  street. 
He  said  to  me :  "Such  rags  as  those 
just  simply  can't  be  beat.  They 
ornament  the  clothier's  trade,  and 
eke  the  tailor's  shears ;  they  will 
not  shrink,  they  will  not  fade,  they'll 
last  a  hundred  years.  Go  forth," 
said  Bilks,  "upon  the  street,  in  all 
your  pomp  and  pride,  and  every 
pretty  girl  you  meet  will  wish  she 
was  your  bride." 

So  I  went  forth  in  brave  array, 
the  city's  one  best  bet.  There  was 
a  little  shower  that  day,  and  I  got 
slightly  wet.  And  then  the  truth 
was  driven  in  that  my  new  rags 


were  punk.  Alas,  my  friends,  it  was 
a  sin  the  way  those  trousers  shrunk ! 
The  buttons  from  my  waistcoat  new 
with  dull  and  sickening  crack;  my 
coat  soon  changed  from  brown  to 
blue  and  then  split  up  the  back. 

Old  Bilks  gold-bricked  me  in  that 
deal,  but  does  his  system  pay? 
Hell  never  get  another  wheel  from 
me  till  Judgment  Day.  The  kopeck 
that  you  win  by  guile  may  swell 
your  roll  today,  but  in  the  clammy 
atterwhile  it  melts  that  roll  away. 


121 


STANDING  PAT 

VADUR  arguments  for  modern 
*•  things  with  me  cannot  avail ;  my 
father  reaped  his  grain  by  hand  and 
thrashed  it  with  a  flail;  then  -who 
am  I  to  strike  new  paths  and  buy 
machinery?  The  methods  good 
enough  for  dad  are  good  enough 
for  me!  I  want  no  hydrant  by 
my  house — such  doodads  I  won't 
keep!  My  father  drew  the  water 
from  a  well  three  furlongs  deep,  and 
skinned  his  hands  and  broke  his 
back  a-pulling  at  the  rope,  and 
methods  that  my  father  used  will 
do  for  me,  I  hope !  Don't  talk  of 
your  electric  light;  a  candle's  all 
I  need ;  my  father  always  went  to 
bed  when  'twas  too  dark  to  read ; 
I  want  no  books  or  magazines  to 
clutter  up  my  shack;  my  father 
never  read  a  thing  but  Johnson's 
almanac.  A  bathroom?  Blowing 
wealth  for  that  ridiculous  appears ; 
my  father  never  used  to  bathe,  and 
lived  for  ninety  years.  I  care  not 


122 


for  your  "progress"  talk,  "reform" 
or  other  tricks ;  my  father  never 
used  to  vote  or  fuss  with  politics ; 
he  never  cared  three  whoops  in 
Troy  which  side  should  win  or  lose, 
and  I'm  content  to  go  his  gait,  and 
wear  my  father's  shoes. 


12S 


THE  OUTCAST 

V/OU  ask  me  why  I  weep  and 
*  moan,  like  some  lost  spirit  in 
despair,  and  why  I  wonder  off 
alone,  and  paw  the  ground  and 
tear  my  hair?  You  ask  me  why 
I  pack  this  gun,  all  loaded  up, 
prepared  to  shoot?  Alas  !  my 
troubles  have  begun  —  the  women 
folk  are  canning  fruit!  There  is 
no  place  for  me  to  eat,  unless  I 
eat  upon  the  floor;  and  peelings 
get  beneath  my  feet,  and  make  me 
fall  a  block  or  more  ;  the  odors  from 
the  boiling  jam,  all  day  assail  my 
weary  snoot;  you  find  me,  then, 
the  wreck  I  am  —  the  women  folk 
are  canning  fruit!  O,  they  have 
peaches  on  the  chairs,  and  moldy 
apples  on  the  floor,  and  wormy 
plums  upon  the  stairs,  and  piles 
of  pears  outside  the  door;  and  they 
are  boiling  pulp  and  juice,  and  you 
may  hear  them  yell  and  hoot;  a 
man  s  existence  is  the  deuce  —  the 
women  folk  are  canning  fruit! 


124 


ODE  TO  KANSAS 

T/'ANSAS:     Where  we've  torn  the 
JX     shackles 

From  the  farmer's  leg; 
Kansas  :  Where  the  hen  that  cackles. 

Always  lays  an  egg; 
Where  the  cows  are  fairly  achin' 
To  go  on  with  record  breakin\ 
And  the  hogs  are  raising  bacon 

By  the  keg! 


125 


DOMESTIC  HAPPINESS 

TT  is  good  to  watch  dear  father  as 
•*•  he  blithely  skips  along,  on  his 
face  no  sign  of  bother,  on  his  lips  a 
cheerful  song;  peeling  spuds  and 
scraping  fishes,  putting  doilies  on  the 
chairs,  sweeping  floors  and  washing 
dishes,  busy  with  his  household 
cares.  Now  the  kitchen  fire  is  burn 
ing;  to  get  supper  he  will  start — 
mother  soon  will  be  returning  from 
her  labors  in  the  mart. 

Poor  tired  mother!  Daily  toiling 
to  provide  our  meat  and  bread ! 
Where  the  eager  crowd  is  moiling, 
struggling  on  with  weary  tread ! 
.Battling  with  stockjobbing  ladies, 
meeting  all  their  wiles  and  tricks, 
or  embarking  in  the  Hades  of  the 
city's  politics!  But  forgotten  is  the 
pother,  all  the  work  day  cares  are 
gone,  when  she  comes  home  to  dear 
father  with  his  nice  clean  apron  on ! 
"There's  your  chair/'  he  says;  "sit 
in  it;  supper  will  be  cooked  eft- 
soons ;  I  will  dish  it  in  a  minute — 


128 


scrambled  eggs  and  shredded 
prunes.  It  is  good  to  watch  Kim 
moving  round  the  stove  with  eager 
zeal,  in  his  every  action  proving 
that  his  love  goes  with  the  meal. 

When  the  evening  meal  is  eaten 
and  the  things  are  cleared  away, 
then  we  sit  around  repeatin'  cares 
and  triumphs  of  the  day;  and  the 
high  resounding  rafter  echoes  to  our 
harmless  jokes,  to  our  buoyant  peals 
of  laughter,  while  tired  mother  sits 
and  smokes.  Thus  her  jaded  mind 
relaxes  in  an  atmosphere  so  gay,  and 
she  thinks  no  more  of  taxes  or  of 
bills  that  she  must  pay;  smiles  are 
soon  her  face  adorning,  in  our  nets 
of  love  enmeshed,  and  she  goes  to 
work  next  morning  like  a  giantess 
refreshed. 


127 


CELEBRITIES 

LIE  tad  written  lovely  verses, 
*  *  touching  hollyhocks  and  hears 
es,  lotus-eaters,  ladies,  lilies,  porcu 
pines  and  pigs  and  pies,  nothing 
human  was  beyond  him,  and  admir 
ing  people  conned  him,  adoration  in 
their  bosoms  and  a  rapture  in  their 
eyes.  He  had  sung  of  rigs  and 
quinces  in  the  tents  of  Bedouin 
princes,  he'd  embalmed  the  Roman 
Forum  and  the  Parthenon  of  Greece ; 
many  of  his  odes  were  written  in  the 
shrouding  fogs  of  Britain,  while  he 
watched  the  suffrage  ladies  mixing 
things  with  the  police. 

So  we  met  to  do  him  honor;  wor 
shipper  and  eager  fawner  begged  a 
tassel  of  his  whiskers,  or  his  auto 
graph  in  ink;  never  was  there  so 
much  sighin'  round  a  pallid  human 
lion,  as  he  stood  his  lines  explain 
ing,  taking  out  the  hitch  and  kink! 

All  were  in  a  joyous  flutter,  till 
we  heard  some  fellow  mutter :  Here 


12S 


comes  Griggs,  the  southpaw  pitcher, 
fairly  burdened  with  his  fame !  He 
it  was  who  beat  the  Phillies — gave 
the  Quaker  bugs  the  willies — he  it 
was  who  saved  our  bacon  in  that 
leven-inning  game  f 

Then  we  crowded  round  the  pitch 
er,  making  that  great  man  the  richer 
by  a  ton  of  adulation,  in  a  red-hot 
fervor  flung;  and  the  poet,  in  a 
pickle,  mused  upon  the  false  and 
fickle  plaudits  of  the  heartless  rab 
ble,  till  the  dinner  gong  was  rung ! 


I 


THE  VIRTUOUS  EDITOR 

I  USE  my  Trenchant,  fertile  pen  to 
*  kelp  along  the  cause  of  men  and 
make  the  sad  world  brighter,  to 
give  all  good  ambitions  wings,  to 
help  the  poor  to  better  things  and 
make  their  burdens  lighter.  The 
page  whereon  my  screeds  appear 
enjoys  a  sacred  atmosphere;  it's 
helpful  and  uplifting;  it  hands  out 
morals  by  the  ton,  and  shows  the 
people  how  to  shun  the  rocks  to 
which  they're  drifting. 

You  say  my  other  pages  reek  with 
filthy  "cures  for  cancer"?  Im 
pertinently,  sir,  you  speak,  and  I 
refuse  to  answer. 

All  causes  good  and  true  and  pure, 
and  everything  that  should  endure 
Fm  always  found  supporting;  and 
in  my  lighter  moments  I  to  heights 
of  inspiration  fly,  the  soft  -  eyed 
muses  courting.  To  those  who 
wander  far  astray  I,  like  a  shepherd, 
point  the  way  to  paths  and  fields 
Elysian ;  no  sordid  motives  soil  my 


130 


pen  as  I  assist  my  fellow  men,  no 
meanness  mars  my  vision. 

You  say  I  print  too  many  ads,  unfit 
for  youths  perusal,  of  fakers*  pills 
and  liver  pads?  I  gave  you  one  re 
fusal  to  argue  that,  so  quit  your  fuss 
and  cease  your  foolish  chatter;  it  is 
beneath  me  to  discuss  a  purely 
business  matter. 

I  point  out  all  the  shabby  tricks 
which  now  disgrace  our  politics, 
those  tricks  which  shame  the  devil; 
I  ask  the  voters  to  deface  corruption 
and  our  country  place  upon  a  higher 
level.  Through  endless  wastes  of 
words  I  roam  to  make  the  Fireside 
and  the  Home  the  nation's  shrine 
and  glory;  and  Purity  must  ring 
again  in  every  offspring  of  my  pen, 
in  every  screed  and  story. 

You  say  my  paper  isn't  fit  for 
aught  but  toughs  and  muckers? 
That  all  the  fakers  come  to  it  when 
they  would  fleece  the  suckers?  Your 
criticism  takes  the  buns !  It's  surely 
most  surprising!  You'll  have  to  see 
the  man  who  runs  the  foreign  adver 
tising. 


131 


THIS  DISMAL  AGE 

is  a  humdrum  world,"  he  said, 
in  winch  we  now  abide!  alas!  the 
good  old  times  are  dead  when  brave 
knights  used  to  ride  to  war  upon 
their  armored  steeds ;  then  blood 
shed  was  in  style;  then  men  could 
do  heroic  deeds,  and  life  was  worth 
the  while.  If  I  should  go  with  lance 
and  sword  to  enemy  of  mine — to  one 
by  whom  IVe  long  been  bored,  and 
cleave  him  to  the  chine,  there M  be 
no  plaudits  long  and  loud,  no  wreaths 
from  ladies  pale ;  the  cops  would 
seek  me  in  a  crowd,  and  hustle  me 
to  jail.  If  down  the  highway  I 
should  press,  beneath  the  summer 
skies,  to  rescue  damsels  in  distress 
and  wipe  their  -weeping  eyes,  I'd 
win  no  praises  from  the  sports; 
they'd  call  me  a  galoot;  I'd  have  to 
answer  in  the  courts  to  breach-of- 
promise  suit.  Adventure  is  a  thing 
that's  dead,  we  ve  reached  a  low 
estate,  and  I  was  born,  alas !  he 
said,  "five  hundred  years  too  late/' 


13S 


He  took  the  morning  paper  then, 
which  reeked  with  thrilling  things, 
with  tales  of  fighting  modern  men ; 
the  strife  of  money  kings ;  the  eager, 
busy,  human  streams  throughout 
this  mundane  hive ;  the  struggle  of 
the  baseball  teams,  which  for  the 
pennant  strive;  the  polar  hero  and 
his  sled ;  the  race  of  motor  cars ;  the 
flight  of  aernauts  overhead,  outlined 
against  the  stars. 

"It  is  a  humdrum  age,"  he  sighed, 
"of  avarice  the  fruit.  Upon  a  steed 
Fd  like  to  ride,  and  wear  a  cast  iron 
suit,  and  live  as  lived  the  knights  of 
old,  the  heroes  of  romance ;  I'd  like 
to  carry  spurs  of  gold  and  wield  a 
sword  and  lance ;  but  in  this  drear 
and  pallid  age,  from  Denver  to  Des 
Moines,  there's  naught  to  stir  a 
noble  rage — there's  nothing  counts 
but  coin!" 


18S 


BOOST  THINGS 

sit  supinely  on  your  roost, 
but  come  along  and  kelp  us  boost, 
for  better  tilings  of  every  kino!,  and 
leave  your  kicking  clothes  behind. 
O  let  us  boost  for  better  streets,  and 
softer  beds,  and  longer  sheets;  for 
smoother  lawns  and  better  lights, 
and  shorter-winded  blatherskites ; 
for  finer  homes,  and  larger  trees,  for 
bats  and  boots  and  bumble  bees; 
for  shorter  hours  and  longer  pay, 
and  fewer  thistles  in  our  hay,  for 
better  grub,  and  bigger  pies,  for 
two  more  moons  to  light  the  skies. 
And  let  the  wolves  of  war  be  loosed 
on  every  man  who  doesn't  boost! 


134 


THE  ADVENTURER 

LIE  had  braved  the  hungry  ocean 
*  *  wlien  the  same  was  in  commo 
tion,  lie  liad  floated  on  the  wreckage 
of  his  tempest-shattered  bark ;  he 
had  flirted  in  deep  waters  with  the 
merman's  wives  and  daughters,  he 
had  scrapped  through  seven  sessions 
with  a  large  man-eating  shark. 

He  had  roamed  in  regions  polar, 
where  there's  no  effulgence  solar,  he 
had  slain  the  festive  walrus  and  the 
haughty  arctic  bear;  and  his  watch 
word  had  been  spoken  in  the  wastes 
by  whites  unbroken,  and  he  shelled 
out  many  gumdrops  to  the  natives 
living  there. 

In  the  jungles,  dark  and  fearful, 
where  the  tiger,  fat  and  cheerful, 
gnaws  the  bones  of  foreign  hunters, 
he  had  gone,  unscathed,  his  way;  he 
had  whipped  a  big  constrictor,  and 
emerged  the  smiling  victor  from  a 
scrimmage  with  a  hippo,  which  was 
fond  of  deadly  fray. 


135 


He  was  sKot  with  poisoned  arrows 
and  his  tale  of  anguish  harrows  up 
the  bosom  of  the  reader,  tut  he  lived 
to  journey  home ;  he  was  chased  ty 
wolves  in  Russia,  thrown  in  prison 
cell  in  Prussia,  and  was  captured  ty 
fierce  tandits  in  the  neightorhood  of 
Rome.  He  had  lived  where  dwells 
the  savage  whose  amtition  is  to  rav 
age  and  to  fill  his  cozy  wigwam  with 
a  handsome  line  of  scalps;  he  had 
lived  with  desert  races,  sought  the 
strange  and  distant  places,  he  had 
stood  upon  the  summit  of  the  lofti 
est  of  Alps. 

To  his  home  at  last  returning, 
filled  with  sentimental  yearning, 
"Now,"  he  cried,  "farewell  to  danger 
— I  have  left  its  stormy  track!"  Far 
from  scenes  of  strife  and  riot  he  de 
sired  long  years  of  quiet,  tut  a  cast 
ing  from  an  airship  fell  three  miles 
and  troke  his  tack. 


Uu. 4 

1H 


THEY  ALL  COME  BACK 

E  stars  will  come  back  to  the 
azure  vault  when  the  clouds  are 
all  blown  away;  and  the  sun  will 
come  back  when  the  night  is  done, 
and  give  us  another  day;  the  cows 
will  come  back  from  the  meadows 
lush,  and  the  birds  to  their  trysting 
tree,  but  the  money  I  paid  to  a 
mining  shark  will  never  come  back 
to  me !  The  leaves  will  come  back 
to  the  naked  boughs,  the  flowers  to 
the  frosty  brae ;  the  spring  will 
come  back  like  a  blooming  bride, 
and  the  breezes  that  blow  in  May; 
and  joy  will  come  back  to  the  stricken 
heart,  and  laughter  and  hope  and 
glee,  but  the  money  I  blew  for  some 
mining  stock  will  never  come  back 
to  me! 


117 


HOME  BUILDERS 

S~\LD  Bullion  lias  a  stack  of  ricli 
^•^  tilings  in  his  snack;  of  Persian 
rugs  and  antique  jugs  and  costly 
bric-a-brac.  There's  art  work  in 
the  kail,  fine  paintings  on  the  wall; 
and  yet  a  gloom  as  of  the  tomb  is 
hanging  over  all.  Here  costly  books 
abound.  "This  cost  a  thousand 
pound;  that  trade-mark  blur  means 
Elzivir — IVe  nothing  cheap  around. 
Here's  Venus  in  the  foam;  the 
statue  came  from  Rome;  I  bought 
the  best  the  world  possessed  when 
I  built  up  this  home/'  Thus  proudly 
Bullion  talks,  as  through  his  home 
he  walks,  and  tells  the  cost  of 
things  embossed,  of  vases,  screens 
and  crocks.  No  children's  laughter 
rings,  among  those  costly  things; 
no  sounds  of  play  by  night  or 
day;  no  happy  housewife  sings. 
For  romping  girl  or  boy  might  easily 
destroy  a  priceless  jug,  or  stain  a 
rug,  and  ruin  Bullion's  joy.  The 
guests  of  Bullion  yawn,  impatient  to 


13S 


"be  gone,  afraid  they'll  mar  some 
lacquered  jar,  or  tread  some  fan 
upon. 

Down  here  where  Tiller  dwells 
you  Hear  triumphant  yells  of  girls 
and  boys  who  play  with  toys,  with 
hoops  and  horns  and  bells.  There 
are  no  costly  screens ;  no  relics  of 
dead  queens;  but  on  the  stand, 
close  to  your  hand,  cheap  books 
and  magazines.  There's  no  Egyp 
tian  crock,  or  painted  jabberwock, 
but  by  the  wall  there  stands  a  tall 
and  loud  six-dollar  clock.  Old  Tiller 
can't  impart  much  lore  concerning 
art,  or  tell  the  price  of  virtu  nice 
until  he  breaks  your  heart.  But  in 
his  home  abide  those  joys  which 
seem  denied  to  stately  halls  upon 
whose  walls  are  works  of  pomp  and 
pride.  That  pomp  which  smothers 
joy,  and  chills  a  girl  or  boy,  may 
have  and  hold  the  hue  of  gold,  but 
it  has  base  alloy. 


139 


FAILURE  AND  SUCCESS 

T   TE  was  selling  tacks  and  turnips 

*  •*  in  a  gloomy  corner  store,  and 
he  never  washed   his   windows   and 
he  never  swept  the  floor,  and  he  let 
the   cobwebs   gather    on   the  ceiling 
and  the  walls,  and  he  let  his  whisk 
ers    flourish    till    they    brushed    his 
overalls.     So  his  customers  forsook 
him — for     his     patrons     were     not 
chumps — and   the   sheriff  came   and 
got  him  and  that  merchant  bumped 
the  bumps. 

T   TE    was    selling    hens    and    ham- 

*  *  mocks,  as  he'd  done  since   days 
of   youth,    and    he    queered    himself 
with   many,    for   he    never   told    the 
truth.      Oh,     he     thought    it    rather 
cunning  if  he  sold  a  rooster  old  as  a 
young  and  tender  pullet  through  the 
artful  lies  he  told;  and  he'd  sell  a 
shoddy  hammock  as  a  thing  of  silken 
thread,  and  the  customer  would  bust 
it  and  fall  out  upon  his  head ;  so  his 
customers  forsook  him,  and  he  sadly 


watched  them  flit,  and  the  sheriff 
came  and  got  him,  and  that  mer 
chant  hit  the  grit. 

LJE  was  selling  shoes  and  sugar — 

*  •*•   sugar  from  the  sunny  South — 
and  he'd  roast  the  opposition  when 
he  should  have  shut  his  mouth.      He 
would   stand    and    rant   and   rumble 
by  the  hour  of  Mr.  Tweet,  who  was 
selling  shoes  and  sugar  in  the    shack 
across  the  street;   and  he'd  vow  all 
kinds  of  vengeance,  and  he'd  tell  all 
kinds  of  tales,  till  his  wearied  patrons 
sometimes  rose  and  smote  him  with 
his  scales;  for  they  cared  about  his 
troubles  and  his  sorrows  not  three 
whoops,    and  the    sheriff    came    and 
got  him,  and  that  merchant  looped 
the  loops. 

I_JE   was   selling   books   and   bees- 

*  *  wax,    and    his    store    was    neat 
and  clean,  and  the  place  was  bright 
and    cheerful,    and    the    atmosphere 
serene.      He  was  tidy  in  his  person, 
and  his  clerks  were  much  the  same. 


141 


and  no  precious  time  was  wasted  in 
the  tiresome  knocking  game.  And 
the  customer  who  entered  was  with 
courtesy  received,  and  he  felt  quite 
proud  and  happy  when  of  cash  he 
was  relieved.  And  the  merchant's 
word  was  golden,  what  he  said  was 
always  true,  and  he  sold  no  moldy 
beeswax,  saying  it  was  good  as  new. 
And  his  trade  kept  on  increasing  till 
his  oank  account  was  fat,  and  the 
sheriff,  when  he  met  him,  always 
bowed  and  tipped  his  hat. 


142 


THE  OPEN  ROAD 

Romance 

TO  walk  again  the  open  road  I 
•*•  have  a  springtime  longing;  I 
yearn  to  leave  my  town  abode,  tKe 
jostling  and  the  thronging,  and 
tread  again  the  quiet  lanes,  among 
the  woodland  creatures  ;  where  birds 
are  singing  joyous  strains  to  beat 
the  music  teachers.  Afar  from 
honks  of  motor  cars,  and  all  the 
city's  clamor,  Fd  like  to  sleep 
beneath  the  stars,  and  feel  no 
katzenjammer  when  in  the  vernal 
dawn  I  wake,  as  chipper  as  the 
foxes,  to  eat  my  frugal  oatmeal  cake 
put  up  in  paper  boxes.  I  fain  would 
revel  in  the  breeze  that  blows  across 
the  clover,  and  drink  from  brooks, 
with  stately  trees,  like  Druids,  bend 
ing  over,  id  leave  the  pavement 
and  the  wall,  the  too  persistent 
neighbor,  and  hear  the  rooster's 
early  call  that  wakes  the  world  to 
labor.  Fd  seek  the  haynelds  whose 
perfume  the  jaded  heart  doth 


143 


nourish,  Pd  go  where  wayside  roses 
bloom  and  johnny- jump-ups  flourish. 
Td  see  the  pasture  flecked  with 
sheep  and  mule  and  colt  and  heifer, 
and  let  my  spirit  lie  asleep  upon  the 
twilight  zephyr.  Oh,  town,  I  leave 
you  for  a  week,  your  burdens  and 
your  duties!  The  country  calls  me 
— I  must  seek  its  glories  and  its 
beauties ! 

Reality 

EE  whiz !  Fd  give  a  million 
bones  to  be  back  home  a-sleep- 
ing!  My  shoes  are  full  of  burs  and 
stones,  and  I  am  tired  of  weeping. 
Last  night  I  sought  a  stack  of  hay, 
where  slumber's  fetters  bound  me, 
and  at  the  cold,  bleak  break  of  day 
a  husky  farmer  found  me.  I  tried 
to  pacify  his  nibs  when  he  stood 
there  and  blessed  me;  alas,  his 
pitchfork  smote  my  ribs,  his  cow 
hide  shoes  caressed  me.  The 
dogs  throughout  this  countryside 
all  seem  to  think  they  need  me; 
they've  gathered  samples  of  my 


144 


hide,  and  many  times  they  ve 
treed  me.  And  when  I  roamed  the 
woodland  path  to  see  the  wild- 
flowers*  tinting,  a  bull  pursued  me 
in  its  wrath  and  broke  all  records 
sprinting.  At  noontide  I  sat  down 
to  rest,  and  rose  depressed  and 
dizzy ;  I'd  sat  upon  a  hornet's  nest, 
and  all  the  birds  got  busy.  My 
whiskers  now  are  full  of  hay,  my 
legs  are  lame  and  weary;  it's  been 
a-raining  every  day,  and  all  the 
world  is  dreary.  The  road  will  do 
for  those  who  like  a  pathway  rough 
and  gritty;  I  ve  had  enough — just 
watch  me  hike  back  to  the  good  old 
city. 


145 


THE  MILLIONAIRES 

TTHEY  like  to  make  the  people 
•*  tliink  that  all  their  piles  of  yel 
low  chink,  are  weary  burdens,  to  be 
borne,  with  eyes  that  weep  and 
hearts  that  mourn;  but  as  you  jog 
along  the  road,  you  see  no  million 
aires  unload.  They  like  to  talk  and 
drone  and  drool,  to  growing  youths 
in  Sunday  school,  and  tell  them  that 
the  poor  man's  lot  is  just  the  thing 
that  hits  the  spot;  to  warn  them  of 
ambition's  goad — they  talk,  and  talk, 
but  don't  unload.  They  like  to  talk 
of  days  long  gone,  when  life  for  them 
was  at  its  dawn,  and  they  were  poor 
and  bent  with  toil,  and  drew  their 
living  from  the  soil,  and  lived  in 
some  obscure  abode — and  so  they 
dream,  but  don't  unload.  They  like 
to  take  a  check  in  hand,  and,  headed 
by  the  village  band,  present  it  to 
some  charity — 'twould  mean  five 
cents  to  you  or  me ;  then  they're  em 
balmed  in  song  and  ode ;  they  smirk 
and  smile,  but  don't  unload. 


146 


LITTLE  MISTAKES 

I  USED  to  trade  at  Grocer  Gregg's 
and  paid  Him  heaps  of  cask  for 
flour  and  cheese  and  germ-proof 
eggs,  and  cans  of  succotash.  But 
now  he  doesn't  get  my  trade — that's 
why  his  bosom  aches ;  I  had  to  quit 
him,  for  he  made  so  many  small 
mistakes. 

He'd  send  me  stale  and  wilted 
greens  when  I  had  ordered  fresh ; 
he's  send  me  gutta  percha  beans, 
all  string  and  little  flesh.  And  when 
I  journeyed  to  his  store  to  read  the 
riot  act,  three  score  apologies  or 
more  he'd  offer  for  the  fact.  That 
doggone  clerk  of  his,  he'd  say,  had 
got  the  order  wrong:  and  always,  in 
the  same  old  way,  he'd  sing  the  same 
old  song.  He  seemed  to  think  apol 
ogies  were  all  I  should  desire,  when 
he  had  sent  me  moldy  cheese  or  her 
rings  made  of  wire. 

And  when  his  bill  came  in,  by 
jings,  it  always  made  me  hot;  he'd 


147 


liave  me  charged  with  clivers  things 
I  knew  I  never  bought.  Then  I 
would  call  on  Grocer  Gregg  in  wrath 
and  discontent,  and  seize  him  firmly 
by  the  leg  and  ask  him  what  he 
meant.  Then  grief  was  in  the  gro 
cer's  looks,  frowns  came,  his  eyes 
betwixt;  "The  idiot  who  keeps  my 
books,"  he'd  say,  "has  got  things 
mixed.  I  wouldn't  have  such  breaks 
as  these  for  forty  million  yen ;  I  offer 

my  apologies  and  hope  you'll  come 

,   '     " 
again. 

He'd  often  send  the  things  I  bought 
to  Colonel  Jones,  up  town,  and  I 
would  get  a  bunch  of  rot  that  should 
have  gone  to  Brown.  And  oft  at 
home  I'd  wait  and  wait,  in  vain  for 
Sweitzer  cheese ;  instead  of  that  I'd 
get  a  crate  of  codfish,  prunes  or  peas. 
And  then  I'd  go  to  Grocer  Gregg, 
and  mutter  as  I  went;  "I'll  take  that 
merchant  down  a  peg,  and  in  him 
make  a  dent."  He'd  spring  the  same 
old  platitudes  when  I  had  reached 
his  den  :  "That  vampire  who  delivers 
goods  has  balled  things  up  again." 


148 


Apologies  are  good  enough,  ex 
cuses  are  the  same ;  but  forty-seven 
are  enough  to  tire  one  of  that  game. 
It's  better  far  to  shun  mistakes,  and 
do  things  right  at  first,  than  to  ex 
plain  your  dizzy  breaks  till  your  sus 
penders  burst. 


149 


EASY  MORALITY 

VJT7HEN  tilings  are  moving  slick  as 
™  grease,  it's  easy  to  be  moral 
then,  to  wear  a  gentle  smile  of  peace, 
and  talk  about  good  will  to  men. 
Such  virtue  doesn't  greatly  weigh, 
in  making  up  the  books  oi  life;  the 
man  who  cheerful  is  and  gay,  in 
times  of  sorrow  and  of  strife,  is  bet 
ter  worth  a  word  of  praise,  than  all 
the  gents  of  smiling  mien,  who 
swear  in  forty  different  ways  when 
life  has  ceased  to  be  serene.  This 
morning,  as  I  ambled  down,  a  neigh 
bor  fell  ( the  walk  was  slick)  and  slid 
half-way  across  the  town,  and  land 
ed  on  a  pile  of  brick.  He  slid  along 
at  such  a  rate  the  ice  was  melted  as 
he  went;  his  shins  were  barked,  and 
on  his  pate  there  was  a  large  un 
sightly  dent.  And  when  he'd  breath 
enough  to  talk,  he  didn't  cave  around 
and  swear,  or  blank  the  blanked  old 
icy  walk ;  he  merely  cried :  *  Well, 
I  declare!" 


150 


THE  CRITIC 

COME  years  ago  I  wrote  a  book, 
^  and  no  one  read  it  save  myself; 
it  occupies  a  dusty  nook,  all  sad  and 
lonesome,  on  the  shelf.  And  having 
found  I  couldn't  write  such  stories  as 
would  please  the  mob,  I  sternly  said, 
I  11  wreak  my  spite  on  those  who 
can  hold  down  the  job/*  So  now  I 
sit  in  gloomy  state  and  roast  an 
author  every  day,  and  show  he's  a 
misguided  skate  who  should  be  busy 
baling  hay.  The  people  read  me  as 
I  cook  my  victims,  and  exclaim  with 
glee,  %*If  he  would  only  write  a  book, 
oh  where  would  Scott  and  Dickens 
be?" 

I  used  to  think  that  I  could  sing, 
but  when  a  few  sweet  trills  I'd  shed, 
the  people  would  arise  and  fling  dead 
cats  and  cabbage  at  my  head.  Then, 
realizing  that  my  throat  was  modeled 
on  the  foghorn  plan,  I  said,  "If  I 
can't  sing  a  note,  I'll  surely  roast  the 
folks  who  can!  I  go  to  concerts 
and  look  wise,  and  shudder  as  in 


161 


misery;  in  vain  the  prima  donna 
tries  to  win  approving  smiles  from 
me ;  in  vain  the  tenor  or  the  bass,  to 
gam  from  me  admiring  looks,  pours 
floods  of  music  through  his  face — I 
squirm  as  though  on  tenderhooks. 
And  people  watch  my  curves  and 
sigh :  "He  has  it  all  ty  heart,  by 
jing !  What  melody  would  reach  the 
sky  if  he  would  but  consent  to  sing !" 

When  I  was  young  I  painted  signs, 
but  not  a  soul  my  work  would  buy, 
for  all  my  figures  and  my  lines  were 
out  of  drawing  and  awry.  And  so  I 
said :  "It  breaks  my  heart  that  I 
can't  sell  a  single  sign;  but  in  the 
noble  realms  of  art  as  critic  I  shall 
surely  shine  !"  And  so  I  grew  a  Van* 
dyke  beard,  and  let  my  hair  grow 
long  as  grass,  and  studied  up  a  jar 
gon  weird,  and  learned  to  wear  a 
single  glass.  Then  to  the  galleries 
I  went  and  looked  at  paintings  with 
a  frown,  and  wept  in  dismal  discon 
tent  that  art's  so  crushed  and  beaten 
down.  And  people  followed  in  my 
tracks  to  ascertain  my  point  of  view ; 


U 

152 


whenever  I  applied  tlie  ax  they  gaily 
swung  the  cleaver,  too.  And  often, 
through  a  solemn  hush,  Fd  hear  my 
rapt  admirers  say:  if  he  would 
only  use  the  brush,  Mike  Angelo 
would  fade  away ! 


153 


THE  OLD  TIMER 

V/OU'VE  tuilt  up  quite  a  city  here, 
•*•  with  stately  business  blocks,  and 
wires  a-running  far  and  near,  and 
handsome  concrete  walks.  The  trol 
ley  cars  go  -whizzing  by,  and  smoke 
from  noisy  mills  is  trailing  slowly  to 
the  sky,  and  blotting  out  the  hills. 
And  thirty  years  ago  I  stood  upon 
this  same  old  mound,  with  not  a  house 
of  brick  or  wood  for  twenty  miles 
around!  I'm  mighty  glad  to  be 
alive,  to  see  the  change  you  Ve  made ; 
it's  good  to  watch  this  human  hive, 
and  hear  the  hum  of  trade! 

I  list  to  the  moans  and  wails 
Of  your  town,  with  its  toiling 
hands, 

But  O  for  the  lonely  trails 

That  led  to  the  unknown  lands ! 

I  used  to  camp  right  where  we 
stand,  among  these  motor  cars,  and 
silence  brooded  o'er  the  land,  as  I 
lay  'neath  the  stars,  save  when  the 
drowsy  cattle  lowed,  or  when  a 


154 


TKe  Old  Timer 


broncho  neighed ;  and  now  you  have 
an  asphalt  road,  and  palaces  of 
trade !  We  hear  the  clamor  of  the 
host  on  every  wind  that  blows,  when 
people  take  the  time  to  boast  of 
how  their  city  grows !  I  do  not 
doubt  that  you  will  rise  to  greater 
heights  of  fame,  and  maybe  paint 
across  the  skies  your  city's  lustrous 
name! 

I  list  to  the  ceaseless  tramp 
Of  the  host,  with  its  hopes  and 

fears ; 

But  O  for  the  midnight  camp 
And  the  sound  of  the  milling 
steers ! 


167 


THE  BRIGHT  FACE 

TTrllNGS  are  moving  slowly?  Busi- 
•*•  ness  seems  unholy?  Better 
things  are  coming,  though  they  seem 
delayed !  Sitting  down  and  scowl 
ing,  standing  up  and  growling,  fus 
sing  round  complaining  will  not 
bring  the  trade!  Here  comes  Mr. 
Perkins  for  a  quart  of  gherkins — 
don't  begin  to  tell  him  all  about  your 
woes ;  you  will  only  bore  him,  laying 
griefs  before  him,  and  he'll  be  dis 
gusted  when  he  ups  and  goes.  Show 
him  that  you're  cheerful,  for  the 
merchant  tearful  always  jars  his 
patrons,  always  makes  them  groan ; 
they  don't  want  to  hearken  to  the 
ills  that  darken  over  you  for  they 
have  troubles  of  their  own. 

Here  comes  Mrs.  Twutter  for 
three  yards  of  butter — let  her  see 
you  smiling,  let  her  find  you  gay; 
be  as  bright  and  chipper  as  a  new 
tin  dipper,  show  you're  optimistic, 
in  the  good  old  way!  If  you  mope 
and  mumble  this  good  dame  will 


168 


tumble,  and  shell  tell  her  neighbors 
that  your  head  is  sore;  no  one  likes 
a  dealer  who's  a  dismal  squealer,  so 
your  friends  will  toddle  to  some 
other  store.  When  the  luck  seems 
balky,  and  the  trade  is  rocky,  that's 
the  time  to  whistle,  that's  the  time 
to  grin!  Time  to  make  a  showing 
that  your  trade  is  growing,  time  to 
show  your  grit  and  rustle  round  like 
sin. 

Here  comes  Mr.  Bunyan  for  a 
shredded  onion,  bullion  in  his  trou 
sers,  checkbook  in  his  coat;  give 
him  no  suspicion  that  the  dull  con 
dition  in  the  world  of  commerce  has 
destroyed  your  goat! 


159 


LADIES  AND  GENTS 

\V7HEN  I  was  younger  kids  were 
**  kids,  in  Kansas  or  in  Cadiz; 
now  all  the  boys  are  gentlemen,  and 
all  the  girls  are  ladies.  Where  are 
the  kids  who  climted  the  trees,  the 
tousled  young  carousers,  who  got 
their  faces  black  with  dirt,  and  tore 
their  little  trousers?  Where  are  the 
lads  who  scrapped  by  rounds,  while 
other  lads  kept  tallies?  The  maids 
who  made  their  pies  of  mud,  and 
danced  in  dirty  alleys?  They're 
making  calf-love  somewhere  now, 
exchanging  cards  and  kisses,  they're 
all  fixed  up  in  Sunday  togs,  and  they 
are  Sirs  and  Misses.  Real  kids  have 
vanished  from  the  world — which 
fact  is  surely  hades ;  and  all  the  boys 
are  gentlemen,  and  all  the  girls  are 
ladies. 


160 


AUTUMN  JOYS 

summer  Jays  Lave  gone  their 
ways,  to  join  the  days  of  sum 
mers  olden;  the  eager  air  is  making 
bare  the  trees,  the  leaves  are  red  and 
golden ;  the  flowers  that  bloomed  are 
now  entombed,  the  morn  is  chill,  the 
night  is  dreary;  and  I  confront  the 
same  old  stunt  that  all  my  life  has 
made  me  weary,  Hard  by  yon  grove 
our  heating  stove  is  standing  red 
and  fierce  and  rusty;  and  I  must 
black  its  front  and  back,  and  get 
myself  all  scratched  and  dusty.  And 
I  must  pack  it  on  my  back,  about  a 
mile,  up  to  our  shanty,  and  work 
with  wire  and  pipes  and  fire,  the 
while  I  quote  warm  things  from 
Dante. 


161 


THE  LAND  OF  BORES 

TN  tlie  country  of  the  bores  people 
•*  never  shut  the  doors,  and  they 
leave  the  windows  open,  so  you're 
always  catching  cold;  and  they  lean 
against  your  breast  while  relating 
moldy  jest  that  had  long  and  flow 
ing  whiskers  when  by  Father  Adam 
told.  In  the  country  of  the  bores 
people  carry  sample  ores,  and  they 
talk  of  mines  prolific  till  you  buy  ten 
thousand  shares;  and  they  sell  you 
orange  groves  and  revolving  fire- 
less  stoves,  while  they  loll  upon  your 
divan  with  their  feet  upon  your 
chairs.  In  the  country  of  the  bores 
every  other  fellow  roars  of  the  sins 
of  public  servants  and  the  need  of 
better  things ;  in  a  nation  full  of  vice 
he  alone  is  pure  and  nice,  he  alone 
has  got  a  halo  and  a  flossy  pair  of 
wings.  In  the  country  of  the  bores 
men  who  wish  to  do  their  chores  are 
disturbed  by  agitators  who  declaim 
of  iron  heels,  urging  toiling  men  to 
rise,  with  chain  lightning  in  their 


162 


eyes  and  do  something  to  the  tyrant 
and  his  car  with  bloody  wheels.  In 
the  country  of  the  bores  evermore 
the  talksmith  pours  floods  of  Ian* 
guage  on  the  people,  who  were  better 
left  alone.  But  that  land  is  far  away, 
and  we  should  rejoice  today  that 
we  re  living  in  a  country  where  no 
bores  were  ever  known. 


16S 


SKILLED  LABOR 

PHE  pumpmaker  came  to  my 
•*•  humble  abode,  for  the  pump  was 
in  need  of  repair;  his  auto  he  left 
by  the  side  of  the  road,  and  his  dia 
monds  he  placed  on  a  chair.  And 
he  said  that  the  weather  was  really 
too  cold,  for  comfort,  this  time  of 
the  year ;  and  he  thought  from  Japan 
— though  she's  haughty  and  bold — 
this  country  has  nothing  to  fear. 
He  thought  that  our  navy  should 
equal  the  best,  for  a  navy's  a  warrant 
of  peace;  and  he  said  when  a  man 
has  a  cold  on  his  chest,  there's 
nothing  as  good  as  goose  grease. 
He  thought  that  the  peach  crop  is 
ruined  for  good,  and  the  home  team 
is  playing  good  ball;  and  the  cur 
rency  question  is  not  understood,  by 
the  voters  he  said,  not  at  all.  Then 
he  looked  at  the  pump  and  he  gave 
it  a  whack  and  he  kicked  at  the 
spout  and  said  "Shucks !"  And  he 
joggled  the  handle  three  times  up 
and  back,  and  soaked  me  for  seven 
teen  bucks. 


164 


AN  EDITORIAL  SOLILOQUY 

f  SIT  all  day  in  my  gorgeous  den 
*  and  I  am  the  boss  of  a  hundred 
men ;  my  enemies  shake  at  my  slight 
est  scowl,  I  make  the  country  sit  up 
and  howl ;  to  the  farthest  ends  of  this 
blooming  land  men  feel  the  weight 
of  my  iron  hand. 

But,  oh,  for  the  old,  old  shop, 
Where  I  printed  the  Punktown 

Dirk, 
And  the  toil  and   stress  with  the 

darned  old  press 
That  always  refused  to  work! 

I  soothe  my  face  with  a  rich  cigar 
and  ride  around  in  a  motor  car;  I  go 
to  a  swell  cafe  to  dine  and  soak  my 
works  in  the  rarest  wine.  Oh,  noth 
ing's  too  rich  for  your  Uncle  Jones, 
whose  check  is  good  for  a  heap  of 
bones ! 

But,  oh,  for  the  old,  old  shop. 
Where  I  set  up  the  auction  bills, 

And  printed  an  ad  of  a  liver  pad, 
And  took  out  the  pay  in  pills ! 


165 


I've  won  tlie  prize  in  the  worldly 
game,  my  name's  inscribed  on  tne 
roll  of  fame;  my  tome  is  stately,  in 
stately  grounds,  I  have  my  yacht 
and  I  ride  to  hounds;  nothing  IVe 
longed  for  has  been  denied;  is  it 
any  wonder  I  point  with  pride? 

But,  oh,  for  the  old,  old  shop. 
In  the  dusty  Punktown  street! 

I  was  full  of  hope  as  I  wrote  my 

dope. 
Though  I  hadn't  enough  to  eat! 


166 


YOUTHFUL  GRIEVANCES 

]V/[Y^LADS."  quoth  the  father, 
***  "come  forth  to  the  garden, 
and  merrily  work  in  the  glow  of  the 
sun;  to  loiter  about  is  a  crime  be 
yond  pardon,  wlien  there's  so  much 
hoeing  that  has  to  be  done!  It 
pains  me  to  mark  that  you'd  fain  be 
retreating  away  from  the  hoes  and 
such  weapons  as  these;  you're  dili 
gent,  though,  when  the  time  comes 
for  eating  the  turnips  and  lettuce 
and  cabbage  and  peas." 

"Alas,"  sigh  the  boys,  "that  our 
father  must  work  us  like  galley 
slaves,  thus,  at  the  hoe  and  the 
spade!  More  fortunate  lads  all 
have  gone  to  the  circus,  they  revel 
in  peanuts  and  pink  lemonade !  Oh, 
what  is  the  profit  of  pruning  and 
trimming,  and  sowing  the  radish,  and 
planting  the  yam,  when  everyone 
knows  there  is  excellent  swimming 
two  miles  up  the  creek  at  the  foot  of 
the  dam?' 

"Sail  in!"  cries  the  parent,   "the 


16? 


daytime  is  speeding,  the  night  will 
be  here  in  the  space  of  three  shakes ! 
Oh,  this  is  the  season  for  digging 
and  seeding,  for  doing  great  deeds 
with  the  long-handled  rakes!  Con 
sider  the  maxims  of  Franklin,  the 
printer,  the  rede  of  the  prophets,  of 
poets  who  sing;  in  comfort  they  live 
through  the  stress  of  the  winter,  who 
toil  like  the  ants  or  the  bees  in  the 
spring!" 

"For  maxims  and  proverbs  it's 
little  we're  wishing,"  the  boys  mut 
ter  low,  as  they  wearily  delve;  "the 
neighbor  boy  says  there  is  elegant 
fishing — he  went  after  catfish  and 
came  home  with  twelve.  We  have 
to  stay  here  doing  labors  that  cramp 
us,  while  others  are  pulling  out  fish 
by  the  pound !  They're  playing  base 
ball  every  day  on  the  campus,  and 
down  in  the  grove  there's  a  merry- 
go-round  !" 

Alack!  If  the  parents  could  see 
with  the  vision  of  boys  and  if  boys 
used  the  eyes  of  their  sires,  then 
fun  would  be  labor,  with  rapture 
elysian,  and  toil  would  be  play,  to 
the  music  of  lyres! 


108 


SUNDAY  ? 

\JOW  the  day  is  fading  slowly  and 
*  ^  the  week  is  near  its  close  ;  conies 
the  Sabbath,  calm  and  holy,  with 
its  quiet  and  repose ;  then  the  wheels 
no  more  are  driven,  and  the  noise  no 
longer  swells  and  like  whisperings  of 
heaven,  sound  the  far-off  Sabbath 
bells.  Are  we  striving,  are  we  reach 
ing,  for  the  life  serene  and  sweet? 
Not  by  platitudes  and  preaching,  not 
by  praying  on  the  street,  but  by 
doing  deeds  of  kindness,  comforting 
some  heart  that's  sore,  helping  those 
who  grope  in  blindness,  giving  some 
thing  from  our  store.  If  it  be  our 
strong  endeavor  to  make  others' 
lives  less  hard,  then  forever  and 
forever  Sunday  brings  a  rich  reward. 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN 

f  LIKE  to  find  the  gifted  youth,  the 
*  youtk  of  brains  and  virtue,  and 
whisper  in  his  ears:  "In  truth,  one 
flagon  will  not  hurt  you.  He  who 
eschews  the  painted  breath  is  nothing 
but  a  fossil;  just  try  a  drink  of 
liquid  death — just  join  me  in  high 
wassail/'  At  first  my  words  may 
not  avail,  they  but  offend  and  fret 
him,  but  I  keep  camping  on  his  trail 
until  at  last  I  get  him. 

And  having  marked  him  for  my 
own,  I  glory  in  the  reaping;  I  feel 
that  death,  and  death  alone,  can 
take  him  from  my  keeping.  He's 
mine  to  do  with  as  I  will,  he's  mine, 
both  soul  and  body;  his  one  ambi 
tion  is  to  fill  his  outcast  form  with 
toddy.  At  first  I  take  away  his 
pride,  destroy  his  sense  of  honor, 
and  when  I  see  these  things  have 
died,  I  know  he  is  a  goner.  I  house 
him  in  a  squalid  den,  and  take  his 
decent  garments,  and  entertain  him 
now  and  then  with  rats  and  other 


170 


varmints.  I  place  a  mortgage  on  his 
snack,  despite  his  feeble  ravings,  I 
put  old  rags  upon  his  back,  and  con 
fiscate  his  savings.  And  thus  I  take 
what  is  a  man,  here  in  your  Chris 
tian  city,  and  make  him,  ty  my 
ancient  plan,  a  thing  to  scorn  and 
pity. 

My  victims  lie  in  Potter's  Fields 
in  regiments  and  legions ;  John  Bar 
leycorn  his  scepter  wields  o'er  all 
these  smiling  regions.  I  find  new 
victims  every  day  as  I  go  blithely 
roaming;  a  million  feet  I  lead  astray 
between  the  dawn  and  gloaming. 
With  sparkling  beer  and  foaming 
ale  I  am  my  friends  befriending, 
and  to  the  poorhouse  and  the  jail 
my  followers  are  wending.  You 
hear  the  pageant's  dreary  song  as 
down  the  road  it  ambles ;  I  wonder, 
oftentimes,  how  long  you  11  stand 
my  cheerful  gambols? 


171 


CHRISTMAS  DAY 

IT  ia  the  day  oi  kindness,  and  for 
*  this  day  we're  freed  from  all  the 
sordid  blindness  of  selfishness  and 
greed ;  we  have  a  thought  for  others, 
we'd  ease  their  load  of  care ;  and  all 
men  are  our  brothers,  and  all  the 
world  is  fair. 

This  is  the  day  of  laughter,  where 
in  no  shadows  fall;  and  'neath  the 
cottage  rafter,  and  in  the  mullioned 
hall,  are  happy  cries  ascending,  and 
songs  of  joy  and  peace ;  why  should 
they  have  an  ending?  Why  should 
the  music  cease?  The  music !  When 
we  hear  it,  we  old  men  softly  sigh: 
"Could  but  the  Christmas  spirit  live 
on,  and  never  die !" 

This  is  the  day  of  giving,  and 
giving  with  a  smile  makes  this  gray 
life  we're  living  seem  doubly  worth 
the  while.  When  giving  we're  for 
getting  the  counting-room  and  mart, 
and  all  the  work-day  fretting — and 
this  improves  the  heart;  forgetting 


172 


bonds  and  leases,  and  every  sordid 
goal — this  sort  of  thing  increases  the 
stature  of  the  soul ! 

This  is  the  day  of  smiling,  and 
faces  stern  and  drear,  on  which  few 
smiles  beguiling  are  seen  throughout 
the  year,  are  lighted  up  with  pleasure 
and  eyes  are  soft  today,  and  old  men 
trip  a  measure  with  children  in  their 
play.  And  graybeards  laugh  when 
pelted  with  snow  by  springalds  flung, 
and  frozen  hearts  are  melted,  and 
ancient  hearts  are  young. 

It  is  a  day  for  singing  old  songs 
our  fathers  knew,  while  gladsome 
bells  are  ringing  a  message  sweet  to 
you;  a  day  that  brings  us  nearer  to 
heaven's  neighborhood,  that  makes 
our  vision  clearer  for  all  that's  true 
and  good. 

On  with  the  Christmas  revels  in 
cottage  and  in  hall!  While  from  the 
starry  levels  smiles  Christ,  who 
loves  us  all! 


178 


A  CRANK'S  THANKSGIVING 

I  IKE  others,  I'm  grateful  for 
^-* *  plenty  to  eat ;  Fm  fond  of  a  plate 
ful  of  rich  turkey  meat.  For  pies  in 
the  cupboard,  and  coal  in  the  bin, 
for  tires  that  are  rubbered,  and 
motors  that  spin;  for  all  of  my 
treasures,  for  all  that  I  earn,  for 
comforts  and  pleasures,  my  thanks 
I  return.  I'm  glad  that  the  nation  is 
greasy  and  rich,  acquiring  high  sta 
tion  -with  nary  a  hitch ;  her  barns  are 
a-bursting  witn  mountains  of  grain ; 
her  people  are  thirsting  for  glory  and 
gain.  Shell  ne'er  backward  linger, 
this  land  of  our  dads,  for  she  is  a 
dinger  at  nailing  the  scads.  I'm 
glad  that  our  vessels  bring  cargoes 
across,  while  counting  rooms  wrestle 
with  profit  and  loss;  that  men  know 
the  beauties  of  figures  and  dates, 
and  tariffs  and  duties  and  railway 
rebates. 

I'm  glad  there  are  dreamers  not 
industry  -  drunk,  surrounded  by 
schemers  whose  god  is  the  plunk. 


174 


I'm  glad  we've  remaining  incompe 
tent  jays,  not  always  a-s training,  in 
four  hundred  ways,  to  run  down  and 
collar  one  big  rouble  more,  to  add  to 
the  dollar  they  nailed  just  before. 
I'm  glad  there  are  writers  more 
proud  of  their  screeds  than  board  of 
trade  fighters  of  options  and  deeds. 
I'm  glad  there  are  preachers  who 
tell  of  a  shore  where  wealth-weary 
creatures  need  scheme  never  more. 

For  books  that  were  written  by 
masters  of  thought;  for  harps  that 
were  smitten  with  Homeric  swat; 
for  canvases  painted  by  monarchs 
of  art;  for  all  things  untainted  by 
tricks  of  the  mart;  for  hearts  that 
are  kindly,  with  virtue  and  peace, 
and  not  seeking  blindly  a  hoard  to 
increase ;  for  those  who  are  griev 
ing  o  er  life  s  sordid  plan ;  for  souls 
still  believing  in  heaven  and  man; 
for  homes  that  are  lowly  with  love 
at  the  board;  for  things  that  are 
holy,  I  thank  thee,  O  Lord ! 


175 


THE  BRIEF  VISIT 

I  WONT  be  long  in  this  vale  of 
*  tears;  my  works  may  run  for  a 
few  more  years,  but  even  tliat  is  a 
risky  bet,  and  the  sports  are  hedging 
already  yet.  At  morning  a  gent  feels 
gay  and  nice ;  and  evening  rinds  him 
upon  the  ice,  with  his  folded  hands 
and  his  long  white  gown,  and  his 
toes  turned  up  and  his  plans  turned 
down.  So,  viewing  this  sad  un 
certainty,  and  hearing  the  wash  of 
the  Dead  Man's  sea,  I  want  to 
chortle  the  best  I  can,  and  try  to 
cheer  up  my  fellow  man ;  to  make  a 
fellow  forget  his  care,  and  make 
him  laugh  when  he  wants  to  swear, 
is  as  much  as  a  poet  can  hope  to  do, 
whose  lyre  is  twisted  and  broke  in 
two. 


176 


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Wti  !3    <^2 

JAN    U1946 

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LD  21-100m-7,'40  (6936s) 

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M29364 


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